Airing My Laundry

Just yesterday, the weather couldn’t decide whether it should snow or sleet or just look bleak.  It did seem set on being cold, so I took the occasion of a typical spring day in the eastern plains to hang my laundry to dry in the garden. That is I hung the laundry in the basement next to where all of the seedlings are nestled under the grow lights while it snowed outside. Ahhh, nature!

You may be wondering why I’m drying my clothes on a line anyway. That’s simple enough to explain. The outlet for the dryer doesn’t have the proper amperage.  We’re having an electrician come out to look at this and along with the odd electrical absences in the house. Until then, we’re line drying exclusively.

To be honest, it has been my intention to begin line drying the laundry, at least in part, at our new house. Living in an arid environment most clothes will dry quickly on a line, using less power and smelling pretty nice too. We don't have an air conditioner or swamp cooler either, and it seems silly to heat up the house this summer when there's perfectly good warm air blowing outside. I'm not opposed to dryers. There are certain things like towels that ought to be fluffed in a dryer. Other things like cotton t-shirts and slacks need a dryer to knock out wrinkles, but don’t need a full cycle to dry. Anything I’m going to put under an iron, can certainly dry on the line. I think ironing is relaxing, so I like to do it if I have the time. The same is true of line drying.

Up to now my only impediment to line drying has been suburban home owners association (HOA) restrictions against hanging clothes outside. My card-carrying-HOA-former-neighbors could get by without mowing their back lawns for an entire summer, despite the fact my deck overlooked their homage to Grey Gardens, but I couldn’t hang sheets in my yard for a few hours every Saturday. I have listened to the neighbors' unsupervised children screaming and squealing as though they were being murdered in the street night after night, but God forbid one of my hand towels might blow into their yard to ruin their quiet enjoyment.

I think I'm a tolerant and cooperative neighbor. I've never received a form letter from the  HOA telling me to clean up my act. I will turn off the annoying porch light without any questions and take my yapping dog inside because my neighbors are right to point out he's irritating. I can listen for a long time to engine's revving and subwolfers booming. I can look past the neighbors' weedy backyard and brand new tomato red siding. I'll even pull the weeds that are encroaching and wave to the children who scream in the streets during cocktail hour.  

Since it's not hard to be a good neighbor, I wonder what someone did that drove the HOA over the top to ban practical things like clothes lines, home based businesses and goats. Certainly, my high volume laundry and goat sitting service could be disruptive to the neighborhood, but how is quiet enjoyment and property appreciation is injured by laundry hanging behind a privacy fence, a goat that is in a secure pen and a business that is not spilling out into the driveway.

I also wonder what kinds of neighbors need more rules and less civil conversation. Whatever happened to the humility of asking for permission or to assuming other people may have a reasonable explanation or to admitting when one makes a mistake? Whatever happened to allowing for the fact people make mistakes? My point is that it doesn't help to get so ensconced in rules that we can't show others any forbearance.

Needless to say, I’m happy that my rural situation has given me neighbors whose artfully placed lawn trucks are far enough away as to be quaint and whose chickens are louder than their children.  Sadly, we still aren't zoned for goats. We have one neighbor who is close enough as to recognize my dainties hanging on the line, but I’ve got enough good sense to put those under a sheet. If said lingerie blows away, they’ll more likely be eaten by a deer (or more likely, a chupahuahua) before anyone finds them.

For now, we're only a deer fence away from having a home for my cold hardy seedlings and for a proper clothes line. Given that it always snows in May, I’ll probably still be using the garden under the stairs for a while. I hope the neighbors don't mind what happens when the spring thaw brings 200 thread count sheets.

Moving Part 2: What Happened When Things Got Worse

Quoting It Only Gets Better from Here: “The good news is that my furniture is coming. The plumber is coming. Summer is coming. It can only get better from here.”

The move with the moving company was unusually frustrating, but we survived it. In fact, the day after our furniture arrived we woke in slightly improved conditions having spent the night on a real mattress, even if it was lying on the floor.

We were also in good spirits, because this was the day the plumber was coming. I made coffee and brushed my teeth, happy in the knowledge that I would have filtered, hot water for drinking, bathing and laundering by the end of the day. I had waited patiently for four days. At last, a hot shower. Sigh.

Around 5:30 a.m., the well pump stopped running. I was concerned, but remained optimistic. Certainly it was something simple like a tripped breaker. Once it was a reasonable hour of the morning, I called our neighbor who was kind enough to give me the name of the man who installed his pump. I left a message for him.

Understanding Theoretical Plumbing

The first blow of the day came when the plumber arrived and informed me that he couldn’t finish what he had come to do, unless we had running water.

Our plumber is brilliant at what he does, and it turns out he’s also very good at explaining things to plumbing numbskulls like me.  He carefully outlined the site of future plumbing in the air, so I could imagine where the pipes would be one day. Then he described the sequence in which all of this must happen. The bottom line was that water had to be running so he could test his work once it was installed. I nodded my understanding.  

Everything he said made perfect sense, but there was one part of the problem that had not yet been discussed. So when he paused, awaiting further acknowledgement that I comprehended the dilemma, I said simply, “I haven’t had a shower in three days.” He nodded in understanding.

We nodded at each other. With both of us fully informed of the full range of important plumbing issues that could not be addressed that day, the plumber departed wishing me well. There would be no hot shower on that day. I was numb with shock.

Digging Deep

The second blow of the day came when the pump contractor arrived in the late afternoon, ran some tests, declared the pump dead, and said he would be back with a replacement pump sometime the next day. There would be no water – period – on that day.

Thinking about even one more day of bathing from a sink in a freezing cold room was making me irrational. I was also faced with the problem of how to clean the house as to be suitable for occupancy, wash the dishes, brush my teeth and most importantly flush the toilets. I wanted to cry, but there wasn’t much satisfaction in the exercise.

I had read a sign recently that said, “Attitude is Important. Pick a Good One.” I believe in having a positive attitude. I wanted to be that irrepressible optimist making lemonade out of lemons. I wasn’t feeling it. Whenever I tried to think, "It will be like camping. Camping is fun.”  I kept thinking “Camping is not fun. I like cabins with indoor plumbing and hot water.” Grumble, grumble, grumble. . .

I tried remembering that there are people in the world, in this country even, who have no clean, running water and no means of affording the luxury. The fact that other people have it worse isn’t the kind of thing that makes me feel better. I just felt bad for them too.

I tried to console myself that I only had to wait another day, but a voice in my head kept reminding me that it was supposed to have been done last Thursday, and then on Wednesday, and now on this Thursday. I was getting in touch with my inner-whiner and could only manage to be mildly annoyed with myself.

I tried to rally by showing some grit. People don’t often appreciate how much determination it takes to be a diva, though it’s actually the stock-in-trade.  So, I rationed the bottled water for washing dishes, and recycled the grey water into the toilet tanks for flushing. Between the morning and the afternoon dishes, I got a half of a tank of toilet water. It was supposed to rain, so I set tubs outside to catch some water. (I had reason to be obsessed with filling the toilet tank.) I even made the very practical decision not to waste a five gallons of gas driving across town to my old house to take a shower. I just needed to get through this day and these little feats of common sense began to buoy my can-do attitude.

On the Ropes

Then the third blow of the day came. The pump contractor called back to say he wouldn’t be able to come until Friday. What little optimism I had regained was drained away in an instant. I was wretched, again. I couldn’t think of anything except how I felt sticky and cold and helpless.

At long last, I couldn’t stand myself, and decided I would make the best beta bath that ever was as consolation. If I didn’t warm up, I would at least get clean. Also, I would have more grey water to use in the toilet. Closing myself up in the smallest bathroom with a half- gallon of boiling water actually did help raise the temperature of the bathroom and raise my spirits, especially when I finished it off by soaking my tired, frozen feet in the warm water at the end.

It was shortly after this that Salt, my boyfriend, arrived home and wondered why the house was freezing cold. You may recall from my previous entry, that my fear of the electric bill had kept me from setting the thermostats above 50 degrees. I’m one of those people who is always cold, year round, so it was nice to know that I’m not imagining it for once. 

Salt took me out to a nice, warm restaurant and listened while I tried not to gripe about not being able to bathe, although that is the only thing I could manage to talk about. He didn’t even look exasperated when he finally gave me a pep talk. It went something like, “It isn’t a good idea to make yourself miserable by not turning on the heater.” That may seem like a non sequitur proclamation, but it actually follows that I may not have been able to do anything about the water, but I could control the fact that it was freezing. To his credit, Salt knows how to put an end to the drama, which is how he can stand living with me. His words reminded me that there is such a thing as too much grit.

When we got home, I turned the heat up to 60 degrees.

Things Really Do Get Better

The next morning, I woke up in my “perfect bed,” which was not on the floor anymore and had my requisite feather top and clean linens. The room was not freezing, because the heater works when it’s turned on. I cleaned up without complaining, though I still wanted a shower.

When the sun had risen I opened the front door to let the light warm the living room and waited for the satellite and DSL contractors. Anyone who has waited for the television and internet to be hooked up knows that it isn’t an occasion to be optimistic. The fact that I received automated phone calls delaying their appointments every hour for three hours was not promising, but when they did arrive a miracle happened. The pump contractor called to say that some poor person had to have acid sit in their well overnight before he could get the pump out, so he had time to replace mine. I don’t think that God gave someone a crummier well problem just to move me to the top of the list, but it was like a miracle to me.

So often during this move it seems like we take two steps forward and one step back. This turned out to be a two steps forward day. The satellite and DSL installation went fine. The pump contractor showed up early. At the end of the day, I found out that the plumber had in fact hooked up the hot water heater before he left, so it was even possible to shower that evening.

The furniture came. The water is running. The heater is on. The plumber is coming...someday. It can only get better from here.

Moving Part 1: It Only Gets Better from Here

The move has taken place, and I finally have a little time to post the notes I made from the first few days. First, allow me to set the scene…

The loading dock.

On the day before the move We built a loading dock and ramp over the rickety stairs for the move. That’s a royal "We," because my boyfriend, Salt, planned and built the entire thing. I helped by putting clamps in place, handing him tools, pruning an overhanging tree, and picking up scraps. I carried a 2x6 once. It was pretty heavy, but I thought the bigger trick was not smacking anything with it.

By move in day, we were ready, except for a few things. We didn’t have potable or hot water and it would be five days before the plumber would come to finish all of the connections with the hot water heater, washer, and water conditioner. We also moved in three days ahead of our furniture, which includes our bed and our refrigerator. We knew we would be roughing it for a few days. Coolers could take care of the few refrigerated things we needed, and we had fortuitously invested last winter in a very nice self-monitoring air bed. I read that people had used these for weeks and some people preferred them to regular beds; it should work great for us for three nights… right?

Day 1

2:30 a.m.
I cannot sleep for excitement. I haven’t slept well for weeks. There is so much to do.

3:30 a.m.
May as well get up.

4:30 – 8:30 a.m. 
Feeding the pets, various packing, laundry, loading the car...

8:30 a.m.
My parents arrive with breakfast sandwiches and help pack boxes and fold laundry. Good to see them.

10:00 a.m.
On the road at last with Griffin in the navigator’s seat. The sun is bright. Tired, but in a great mood.

11:00 a.m.
Arrive at the new house. Calicocoa barks at everyone and growls at my father.

11:30 a.m.
Our friends arrive and tour the house. More growling and barking.

1:00 p.m.
Back to the old house. Quick stop at the vet to get pain medication for Calicocoa. Maybe that will quiet her.

2:30 p.m.
There are four people packing in my closet: much banging around, loud chattering, sounds fun. Wish there were more time to join in. Keep loading.

3:00 p.m.
Drop Richard Parker in her cat crate, and head off to the new house.  The miserable wailing of the tortured begins immediately. Three blocks away Richard Parker urinates. Two miles away she begins trying to force her head through the wire mesh, scrapes her face badly, but only gets her nose out. Five miles away she begins panting and long ribbons of drool hang from her mouth. She defecates. She sprays. She claws at the cage. She drools more. She yowls desperately and then hopelessly the entire time. No conciliatory talk helps her calm down.  She has to endure forty minutes of this hell. My heart is breaking.

3:40 p.m.
A bewildered Richard Parker is now locked in a bathroom while the cars are unloaded. Perhaps a  little happier than being in the car.

Moving a la Beverlyhillbillies.

4:00 p.m.             
Our neighbor stops by to help with the unloading. Calicocoa barks and growls, but gives up quickly. No one seems interested in harming her or her pack.

4:30 p.m.

Richard Parker is exploring the house for the first time and seems to approve of the finished basement in particular. All humans are sitting on the loading dock talking. It reached 73 degrees today and it’s still pleasant outside. Everyone is tired and wants to go home. We thank our family and friends.

5:30 p.m.

Sitting on the deck with the fire in the portable pit, sipping wine, while our steaks cook.  Dinner is simple: ribeyes with caprese salad.

8:30 p.m. 
Bed inflated and made up. Time for bed.

Day 2

1:00 a.m.
Sorry. Somehow we both rolled to the middle. Spread out, even the air pressure.

2:00 a.m.
I cannot get comfortable. Is the mattress broken? Did I set it up wrong? I think we’re sinking.

2:30 a.m.
We’re definitely sinking.

3:00 a.m.
We need to reinflate this thing, but everyone else is asleep.

3:30 a.m.
I need to go the restroom. I’m flailing. I’m sinking. I’m swimming through nothing, trying to reach the edge of the bed, but waves of air mattress rise up and block my way with every move I make. I’m floundering. Roll. Roll. Roll with all my might against the wave. Roll. Roll. Roll to the edge of the bed. Roll to the floor exhausted. That’s it, everybody out of bed!

3:45 a.m.
Bed reinflated. This time the auto-fill feature is turned on. Apparently that second step is crucial. Back to sleep.

4:30 a.m.
What was that? Where is Calicocoa going? On no, there’s only  one reason she’d move at that speed at this hour. She needs to relieve herself. Leap from bed. It’s cold. Grab a dressing gown. Grab my paisley Nomad rubber yard boots. Grab Griffin’s leash. All dogs out of the house.

It’s sleeting. I hear a turkey in the distance.

Thank you, Lord, that it’s dark outside. I’m in the yard wearing my dressing gown over my pajamas. As a rule, I don’t wear my dressing gown or my pajamas outside of the house.

This is tragic. I’m standing in the sleet in my pajamas with turkeys laughing at me. I vow: never again.

That turkey is still laughing.

5:00 – 9:00 a.m. 
Unpacking. See a line of five deer running down our road toward the ponderosas.

9:00 a.m. – 3:00 p.m.      
Go back to the old house. Shower. Spend the day packing and loading remaining personal effects. It’s snowing lightly at the old house. Nothing is sticking.

3:00 p.m. 
Going home. Snow is picking up as we head east. The windshield is icing. The wipers aren’t helping much. Visibility is poor.

At home there is a 35 mile per hour wind blowing. It is snowing hard. We unload the truck, leave the car. Again this is a royal “We”; I helped a little.

4:30 p.m. 
It’s freezing. We go out to dinner.

5:30 p.m.
Back at home, we decide to light a fire in the fireplace despite not having a proper screen. Richard Parker loves the fire and parades around in front of the fireplace. The wind is wild. The snow is blowing into drifts.

7:00 p.m.
Exhausted, we decide to put out the fire. The logs go out into the snow. We smoke up the house. Salt is very upset about this. It’s not that bad.

8:00 p.m.
Can’t sleep comfortably on my side on the air mattress. My dust allergy has given me a headache. Fall asleep.

Day 3    

3:30 a.m.
Where’s Calicocoa going? Oh, no! Not again. Wait, Calicocoa, it snowed! Grab a dressing gown. Grab my paisley Nomad rubber yard boots. Grab my coat. Gloves? In my pocket…ewww, filthy cotton moving gloves. Oh well. Everyone out the door now! Hat!? Ah, a cute black beret will finish this ensemble.

And so, I’m standing in the yard wearing pajamas for the second day in a row, but just to make it worse I’m not coordinated. The burgundy barn coat doesn’t match my pale blue dressing gown in color or style. The filthy moving gloves don’t go with anything, especially not the beret. Well, actually, the beret really is a nice touch.

4:00 a.m.
It’s freezing in the house. I’m still wearing the barn coat over my dressing gown as I make coffee. I have new found respect for my grandmother, whom I saw in a barn coat and dressing gown many times.

Salt is getting ready for work where he can take a shower. I’m  strategizing how to use the snow to keep the food in the coolers refrigerated until tomorrow.

5:00 a.m.
Beta bath. Oh, it’s too cold for this.

5:15 a.m.
Dressed. Taking the trash out. Shoveling the deck. It needs to be clear and dry for the movers coming tomorrow. The snow is a few inches deep on the east side, and two feet deep on the south side. I actually like shoveling snow.

6:30 a.m.
The sun is coming up. If I open the front door and let the sun shine through the storm door, it heats the living room pretty well. Boiling water for the dishes helps heat the room too. I’m afraid to turn up the heaters. Everyone says baseboard heat is expensive.

This is where my notes end, but I should point out that on the subject of heating, this internal dialog is unusual for me. I hate to be cold, because I am always cold, even in the summertime. I have never hesitated to turn up a thermostat. For some reason my fear of the electric bill has outweighed my annoyance at being cold.

The good news is that my furniture is coming. The plumber is coming. Summer is coming. It can only get better from here.

Some Girls Get Flowers, Some Girls Get Lumber

My boyfriend is gearing up for building projects.  Today he is taking delivery on the water treatment system and will start building a temporary ramp over the porch steps for the move. That ramp will eventually become my deer fence and raised beds. Tomorrow the hot water heater and the plumber arrive.

I feel like the luckiest woman in the world.

The Dawn of Calicocoa's Diva Days

Following up on the Chupahuahua Solution, we have added a “real” dog, as my boyfriend calls her, to our menagerie. Calicocoa is a seven year old, Blue Heeler-Border Collie mix with a bad hip. Her original name was Callie, but we thought that she would need a sweet name if she’s ever going to be a diva dog.

She has a long way to go to become a diva dog. Can you say “Ruff”? She’s bossy with other dogs and aggressive with strange people. No real diva should have to resort to such brutishness, but brutality is what she knew before being rescued. We believe she deserves a transcendent life, so adoration is what she will know from now on.

You are correct in recalling that the whole point of getting Calicocoa was to have a farm dog. However, given her bad hips and the abuse she suffered in the past, we’ve decided that she’ll be the most pampered farm dog in the county. She can still range the property boundary and bark when cars pull in the driveway, but she’ll learn social graces, get regular massages, and sleep on a queen size mattress.

For now we are working on establishing trust, getting her into a routine, and setting consistent expectations. With some encouragement she has overcome her initial trepidation and made herself quite comfortable on the bed, and may soon eschew her pillow on the floor as any good diva would do. She has also discovered that having one’s belly rubbed is a risk free indulgence and having one’s stiff muscles massaged is heavenly. Etiquette and deportment are going to be a little more difficult to teach. She is obedient, but growling is poor manners.

To her credit, Calicocoa instinctively knows to walk the other way when she sees our cat, Richard Parker. The dogs and the cat won’t let the others near while awake, but they all insist on piling in the bed together at night if a little warily. This is new behavior for Richard, and we think this is her way of asserting her place in the new order – yes, Richard Parker is a female cat.

It’s hard to say what Calicocoa makes of the changes in her life, but she is certainly bringing change to everyone in the house. My boyfriend and I can’t sit down without pets in our laps. Griffin is more observant. Richard Parker is more social. The bed is more crowded. At least we're all in it together.