Country Living

I live on a couple of acres at the end of a dirt road, surrounded on three sides by fields and pastures. There are some amazing benefits to living in the country--wonderful views, plenty of room, no traffic. Sitting on my front lawn with the western sun painting long shadows across the lawn, watching water fowl on the nearby pond, listening to the horses nicker as they nibble their dinner, feels pretty darn close to heaven.

But there are some distinct disadvantages too. When I need to borrow a cup of sugar or an egg, the nearest neighbor is almost half a mile up the road. Our cars are permanently dusted with dirt in the summer, frosted with mud in the winter. Snowplows never make it to our house.

And then there are the practical inconveniences which arise from time to time. Four days ago, as I was washing my hands, I noticed the water pressure dwindling rapidly. Within seconds, it was nothing more than a trickle. Because we are so rural, we are not connected to the city's water or sewer system. (Septic tanks--now that's a topic for another post.) Instead of city water, we have our own artesian well. We have had occasional problems in the winter with the well pump freezing, which causes it to stop working. But with the outside temperature hovering in the 90s, I didn't think freezing was the problem.

So we contacted the well guy. (I asked my husband what the gentleman's actual profession is called, but if it has a name, it's unknown to both of us. Hence, he is "the well guy.") He came out, looked at it, said it needed a part. By the next afternoon, it was fixed, and hallelujah, we had running water again.

For a few hours.

Then it was back to a trickle. We called the well guy again, and he came and replaced a different part. Success! Running water!

Until a few hours later, when it returned to a trickle once more.

We called the well guy for the third time. This time the diagnosis is that the pump is bad (really? no kidding?) and we need a new one. The well guy is supposed to be here some time today to replace it.

Meanwhile, we have unwashed dishes stacked up all over the kitchen and hampers of dirty laundry lining the hallway. And taking a shower? Well, for the last four days, there hasn't been any such thing. The term "shower" implies water coming out in a steady stream with enough force to actually remove the soap from your body. What has actually been transpiring is a combination of a sponge bath, a contortionist act, and Chinese water torture. It takes a good five minutes just to get your entire body wet enough to lather, so you can imagine how long it takes to rinse.

And washing hair? The males in the family have managed to make it work, but I haven't dared to try. With my long hair, I would have to stand under the trickle for hours, and I would still never get all the shampoo out. I did manage to get my hair washed during the one of periods when the pump was "fixed," so it's not totally disgusting yet. And updos conceal a lot. Still, a French braid can only go so far, so I'm really hoping that the well guy manages to pull off a permanent fix soon.

In the mean time, I guess I should be grateful that we have at least a trickle. And that even though it's just a trickle, the toilets still flush. Because as annoying as well problems are for us country folk, septic tank problems are a lot worse. Trust me.

Getting off the rusty nail

Years ago, when I was going through a major life change, I went to a seminar. The presenter used an analogy that always stuck with me. He asked us to imagine an old hound dog lying on a wooden porch. The dog's chin lies directly over a worn place in the planks, and a rusty nail is poking through the wood--right into the dog's tender flesh. It hurts. The old dog whimpers and whines and longs for the pain to subside. But the dog continues to lie in the same place, and the nail continues to cause him pain. Why doesn't the dog move?

Because it's easier not to.

The presenter of the seminar explained that so often, we are like the old hound dog. We are not happy with where we are. It is causing us discomfort or pain. But instead of doing something about it, we stay in the same place, doing what we have always done. And nothing changes.

Lately, I guess I've turned into an old hound dog. I have been bemoaning the fact that I never have time to write, that my life is too crazy, that some day when things calm down, I will start writing again. I've been lying on the porch, miserable about my fate, wondering why my life doesn't get better.

Well, it's time to get off the rusty nail.

For as long as I can remember, writing has been a passion of mind. I have always thought of myself as a writer. So it's time for this writer to start writing.