S*cks To Be Me (#6): Basement Boogie-Woogie

Hello, everyone,

Right. So, this time, finally, at long last, I promise, no kidding, I’m going to get to the Big Bad Basement in Xmas. And we’re going to have rocks. And me. Digging like a gopher on steroids. In a blizzard.. While flying monkeys in UFOs from Oz dive bomb a certain ex-Vice President with high-powered excrement bombs. And I’m not talking Al Gore here. Fill in the blank. Here’s a hint. D*ck Ch*ney.

Okay, so I’m making up the part about the monkeys. But, you get the point. And all the rest is true. And, by Golly, flying monkeys SHOULD be sh*t bombing the aforesaid Veepee. It’s the code of the west.

Where was I? Oh, yes. The Basement.

*

So, as you’ll recall, we’d decided to have the Christmas tree in the basement this year. We have a family room down there, even though we don’t use it much. Until we got the furnace fixed, it was cold down there in winter, and because we haven’t had time to go get some lamps and such, it’s been sorta dim all year around.

But, this year, we decided we were Going To Make An Effort. And Efficiently Use Our Space. And Overcome the Lethargy of Everyday Existence. And Make Total Fools Of Ourselves In A Gesture of Total Futility. That, too, is the code of the west.

We called up our son David and he came out from his apartment and we all three trotted off to buy a tree. It’s sort of a tradition around here. We make it a family outing and regard it as the start of the season.

Sometimes David brings a friend. A few years back, it was his then girlfriend who joined us. She’s a bright and intelligent person who does things in Philosophy. She’s also a tree hugger. Literally. She likes to hug trees. “It’s how you know if they have an affectionate nature,” she says.

So, that year, when we went to the lot where they sell Christmas trees, we embraced spruces. Several of them. Deeply. Passionately. But, don’t worry. It was entirely Platonic. And, besides, the important thing is that you have a good healthy attitude about it. And part friends.

Anyway, we hugged several trees and eventually found one that, she said, had a sweet disposition and a cheery outlook on life, and we took it home. The scary thing? She was absolutely, 100%, completely right. It was one of the best Christmas trees we ever had. Didn’t shed needles. Was just the right size.

Like, I say, scary … but if it works, well, hey. I’m thinking of applying the same principle to lawn care. Maybe give it a shot on shrubbery. Not sure how it’ll work on cactus though. And that package marked Burpee Seeds? Naw. Might frighten the neighbors.

*

Anyway, so this past Christmas it was just David and us. We went to a local plant nursery, garden center, and green house operation that also does Christmas trees during the holidays. It’s a great place, really. Lots of flowers, shrubs, and stuff. And it’s entirely staffed with people who either speak no English or have an attitude problem. Or both. And would just as soon that you go away and die someplace. Ah, the joys of the season.

But, we found a tree and took it back to the house. David and I then wrestled it out of the car, across the lawn, and into the basement. Martha followed close behind to give us direction and moral support. Of which we got lots. Fortunately, she’s a kind and generous soul, always willing to share.

We arrived in the basement and positioned the tree. I said I’d hold it upright while David went and got the tree stand and then we’d get started decorating. Martha said she’d make hot cider. David said he’d be right back and dashed off for the stand.

So…I’m there…holding this tree.

And I notice…a smell.

I’d picked it up before a couple of times. I figured maybe the dog had slipped downstairs and done a flying euphemism behind the sofa. When nobody was looking.

Except…except…it didn’t exactly smell like that.

Holding the tree in one hand I reached down with the other.

Squish…

The carpet was soaking wet.

*

Okay, so here’s the deal. I grew up in a desert. The idea that water might fall from the sky … FROM the FREAKING sky! … is hard enough for me to credit. The idea that it might do so in sufficient quantities to flood things is downright unbelievable.

So, it came as a particularly nasty shock to me to learn that, here in New England, water can actually build up against the side of your house and seep through the space between the foundation and the wall.

And that’s what happened. Water had pooled just in the front of our house and come back in down the wall. The whole basement was wet. The carpet was wet. The clothes in the downstairs closet were wet. A bunch of our books were wet. The electrical wiring (YIKES) in the corner was wet.

End of Christmas in the basement plan…



*

David and I lugged the tree back upstairs, spreading needles and braches everywhere. We then had a rather pleasant remainder of the evening decorating it.

But, the issue was what to do about the flood downstairs.

I chatted with my father and, later, a friend named Skip. Both know about doing home, fixing cars, cutting large things with chain saws, and other guy-stuff like that. Stuff I don’t know squat about. I’m a terrible embarrassment to both of ‘em. But, heck. That’s true for almost everybody I know. So, they can just stop acting like they’re so dang special.

It turns out, though, that the solution to the problem is something called a “French Drain.” That is not a joke. There really is such a thing. I checked on the Internet. So it has to be true. (Doesn’t it?)

At its simplest, a French Drain is just a shallow trench filled with gravel. You dig it along the side of your house and then water…rain, runoff, whatever…enters the gravel and goes down into the ground and not (or so one hopes) into your basement.

You can also get more sophisticated French Drains. Some, for instance, will have a perforated pipe under the gravel to carry the water away from your house entirely. In fact, we later discovered that one of our neighbors had recently invested in just such a system. He had lots of pipes. And gravel. And expensive surveys. And it worked really, really well. Carried all that rainwater away from his house. Down the hill. And into … our…yard.

I’m planning on giving him a small gift soon. It’s sort of a belated housewarming present. It’ll involve a large box filled to the tippy-top with live but somnolent skunks. And an alarm clock. Attached to an air raid siren.


*

Now, all this business of French Drains assumes a new importance when you recall the time of year. It is December when this is going on. As of that date, we hadn’t yet had any snowstorms.

But, as we learned from a quick glance at the Weather Channel, there was a whopper of squall headed our way. It would, said the Weatheroids, going to hit town around mid-afternoon the following day. Further, they added cheerfully, we could expect up to three…as in THREE feet of snow.

For you folks out there on metric, that’s about a meter. And either way, it’s technically known as OHMYGOD AND FREAKING SH()T!

This coming storm presented, however, unique problems for moi. You see, if we did get that much snow, then a bunch of it would be up against our wall and … and …

Think gondolas. And motor boats. And sail boats. And the Harvard Crew. Stroking. In our basement.

*

The next morning, I’m out like a shot to buy gravel to fill a trench. The hardware stores I try don’t have any, so I end up going back to the same local plant nursery-garden-center-green-house where we’d gone to get the tree.

I found a clerk-type person with bad skin and body odor and said to him, “I wonder if you could help me.”

He looked at me suspiciously. “Don’t know. What are you trying to do?”

“I need rocks.”

“Rocks?”

“Rocks.”

“You mean you want a Christmas tree.”

“No, rocks.”

“Oh, you want pine wreaths.”

“No. Rocks. You know? Stones? Igneous, Sedimentary, and Metamorphic.”

“Ah, I understand now. You want tree decorations. They’re in the green house.”

“Er. Sorry. No. Rocks. David killed Goliath with one? Remember? In the Bible?”

He looked at me for a long time. Then he said. “In December?”

“In, as you say, December.”

“Jesus.” He pointed back toward where the dumpsters were. “I think we have some bags left over back there.” Then, he wandered off, looking disgusted and muttering.


*

To make a long story long, I did find several bags of gravel out in the back, next to the dumpsters, and under about a foot of ice. I paid for ‘em and headed for the house. And, shortly thereafter, I was out in the front yard wailing away at the ground with a pick and shovel.

A neighbor went by. She stopped. “You know,” she said, cheerfully. “This is the wrong time of year to do gardening.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yes. You see, it gets cold. And the plants freeze.”

“Ah,” I said.

“So, you might want to wait until Spring. Or sometime.”

“But,” I said, “I’ve got to do this now because I’m putting in a very special crop.”

“Which would be?”

“Snow peas.”

She understood perfectly and went away.


*


I got the trench dug and filled with rocks just as the snow got started in earnest. I then went and took a shower for about a month because if it wasn’t true that I looked like death warmed over, I WAS able to do a pretty good impression of the same dish microwaved and served on toast.

But, I’m happy to report that it seems to have worked. We haven’t water in the basement since.

So, I say to myself, Things Are Getting Back To Normal.

And then…

And then…

I remember.

This is all happening the week of 8 December.

On 15 December … less than a week away . . . I’m scheduled to go meet the Flying Fetish Bouncing Bat-Winged Eyeball. With a meat cleaver.

But that’s for next time.

*

Until then…

Onward and upward.














Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker