Comment
Gravity’s goose egg
My good friend, I’ll call him Gord, had one of those experiences this past week—one of those experiences I expect we all encounter from time to time, but don’t choose to disclose widely, if at all. A series of bad decisions, made with perfectly fine intentions, that turns terribly sour and then gets worse.
There were plenty of warning signs, plenty of opportunities to pull back, reassess and turn this matter over to competent professionals. But men, especially men of Gord’s vintage and upbringing (60 and Glengarry County) aren’t wired to pause when the going gets tough or complicated. Worse, men like Gord often don’t recognize the danger they are gathering around themselves. They plough ahead.
Gord lives in the village. His home is served with municipal water and sewer. But like many older properties, there is an old well still around poking its stub head above his lawn—a legacy of more self-sufficient days. Lately he has been thinking he would like to revive the well in order to water his grass in the summertime. With municipal water prices approaching the cost of chardonnay, many folks are looking at similar options, or resigning themselves to a brown yard through July and August.
He received advice that the well was likely salvageable, but would require a charge test— a measure of how fast the well replenishes itself when the last drop has been pulled from it. To do this, the existing pipe and submersible pump had to be removed from the drilled well.
But before the well could be drawn out, the connection to the house would have to be severed first. It was likely located about five feet below the surface of his now-frozen lawn.
Gord is always game for a challenge—especially when given time and the opportunity. He eschewed the assistance of the well contractor— he would undertake the retrieval of the pump and the pipe on his own. After all, it was just a bit of digging and some cutting.
Gord spent much of the day digging through the hard, limestone-strewn earth, until he heard the clanking sound that signalled that he had found the connecting pipe. He cleared away the soil to reveal his target. Now all he had to do was to cut it.
He borrowed my reciprocating saw. I call it a reciprocating saw because I rarely use it. Most people call it sawsall. By most people I mean, those who use this equipment regularly. In my garage it is mostly an idle emblem of my male potential.
The reciprocating saw, even with a new blade, made no dent into the pipe—bouncing hither and yon. Here was a bright, blinking sign to perhaps pause and reconsider. But Gord pressed on. He rented an eight-inch grinder / cutter (the two-inch grinder seemed inadequate). He descended back down the hole and applied the cutter to the pipe. A shower of sparks whizzed past his ears like the tails of twin comets. He pressed on. Suddenly he was through. And just then, the main well pipe slipped from its position and began falling into the inky darkness of the well casing. He counted: 1,000, 2,000, 3,000 and then a loud thud as it hit the bottom of the well.
He activated the flashlight in his phone. It was down a long, long way inside the six-inch casing.
Now at this point in the story, there are only two types of reactions: 1) Why didn’t he tie it off before cutting the connecting pipe? And, 2) Why wouldn’t he just leave it to the pros?
lesson from such mishaps. We need to say it out loud—not really for Gord’s sake—but for our own. So that perhaps we won’t ignore the warning signs when they flash before our eyes. There is, however, a surprising amount of joy one gets in knowing that others do stupid things too.
One of my favourite bits of the Wellington Home Hardware’s Instagram feed are images and stories of “Renovations are hard,” typically with a faucet or toilet installed in the pathway of a door. Or a homeowner extending his reach from the top rung of a ladder that is perched on a table, sitting on a bench, supported by a couple of chairs.
In any event, Gord’s story has a happy ending. As one does when you’ve done something rather dopey and don’t know how to make it better, he wandered in to Wellington Home Hardware, looking forlorn and beaten.
One potential solution proposed by the proprietor, I shall call him Evan, was to purchase a length of rope and a hook. Perhaps he could fish out this distant pipe? Armed with a plan, a purpose, 60 feet of rope and a hook, he left the store. He did not even pause to go into the house. He tied up the hook and immediately let it slide down the casing until it hit the bottom of the well. Then slowly he pulled the rope upward. Clunk. Clank. Tension. He had found purchase! On his first attempt!
He started pulling the apparatus upward. Giddy with excitement, he wasn’t going to let it go. With his free hand, he called his wife—I shall call her Anne—inside the house. Together they lifted their quarry. Now the pipe was above the casing. They each grabbed the pipe. Their adult daughter—let’s call her Ceilidh—was there now too. All three, like derrick workers, pulled the pipe up and out of the ground. As the apparatus left the water, the pump and pipe became much heavier. The lifters were increasingly soaked with thick, cold, rust-coloured mud. But still they pulled.
The pipe was now reaching high up above the casing, nudging the branches above. They were nearly there. But then a twig pried the hook loose from the pipe, now soaring high above. The hook fell back to earth sideswiping Gord’s head on the way. A throbbing goose egg formed immediately. Still they pulled.
And then it was out. The pump, the pipe and a long streak of mud lay defeated on his lawn. Gord had a minor head wound. But it was worth it.
There is, it turns out, no moral to this story—even if most listeners are keen to divine one from the circumstances. We all have the propensity to do these sorts of things. We tend not to talk about them—or share them.
Gord knows a good story. He knows it when it is still a live and potentially threatening event. No amount of second guessing or questioning of his judgment could prevent him from sharing this story. Sometimes a good story is just that.
Comments (0)