Rain Dance

What do you call 2 slovaks, a czech and one crazy lady jumping around in a mud pit in the pouring rain?

I don't know either, but it sounds like it should be a joke. Instead it was me and the guys yesterday late in the afternoon. It was raining, which is a blessing after such a long dry spell... but it was raining enough to warrant flood warnings in the region.

And it's our dumb luck that it starts pouring exactly one day after we demolish the little remaining drainage from our house. That was Monday. The rain started Tuesday.  Friday, four days later, the heaviest day of rain yet, the water finally found its way inside the basement. Quite a lot of water. Creeping in along the wall that we didn't connect to the drain pipe/sump pump because it never leaked!

The crew was prepping to leave when they realized how bad the basement was. This sent us all scurrying to divert anything we could, which is a challenge when your freakin' downspouts are just a smidge DOWNHILL of the immediate landscaping. (This was why we were revamping the drainage in the first place.)

So we cut the final foot or so off the spouts and put flex pipes on. Then, using a stump, some timber, some bricks, whatever was handy, we filled the mud pit to prop the pipes up high enough off the ground so we could direct them to the closest downhill slope. In a drenching downpour. In a slop of existing mud. All four blind with water streaming down our glasses. We were filthy and cussing in at least four languages before long. And the 'fix' is a ragged ugly mess. It was enough to make us all punchy.

The result:

As I stood on some lumber in the wet basement, surveying the things in there to be sure everything was up on pallets or in plastic, I felt the weight of home-ownership. I felt the responsibility of the decision to buy an older house that needed work. Around me the house was heaving and sighing as the boiler starts another year of heating and the pipes groan as they expand. The upstairs was covered in a fine layer of plaster dust from the plaster patches. I'd spent part of the day debating with the contractor about re-running electrical wire in the attic... Standing there, muddy and tired, I felt dreadfully inadequate to the task of being a grown-up. Of making these decisions and of being responsible for the outcomes.

When I start to doubt like that, I indulge in old house memories from childhood to perk me up. I remember helping Emily mop her mother's basement during a flood event, while singing doofy songs. I remember scary dank damp old dirt floor basements and crawl spaces with standing water and camel crickets. I remember stories my husband tells about one of their one home that had a stream practically running through the basement. And these thoughts comfort me... None of those houses fell down because of a rain storm. None of these families ended up destitute because of wet basements. And I never felt like it was some sign of moral decay or bad planning... of course I wasn't the responsible decision maker nor for any of the damage.

Being a grown-up sucks sometimes.