MONDAY
A long, metallic groan filters up from beneath the house.
Uh oh.
I begin my mental checklist:
– Washing machine? Nope. That reminds me, I need to throw in a load.
– Toilet? Another nope. I haven’t set foot in the bathroom in a while.
– Faucet? Now, there is a likely culprit.
I head into the kitchen and scrutinize the tap. It looks fine – no drips, no water welling on the faucet. I touch the aerator. Faintly damp. That’s normal. I am always rinsing something or another.
Next stop, the bathroom sink. Again, I don’t see any water, but with this ancient, corroded faucet, a slow drip is harder to spot. I wipe my hand across the spout. Quite wet. I must not have completely turned it off the last time I washed my hands. I tighten the cold knob and throw in the hot water for good measure even though I only ever use the cold.
Satisfied, I go back to lounging on the sofa and finishing my daily crossword puzzle. Monday is the easiest and most satisfying. I feel half-way intelligent working on it. As the week progresses, the puzzles become increasingly difficult. By Friday, I am a candidate for remedial kindergarten.
Another deep, mournful wheeze permeates my living room.
What else could it be? My laundry room sink! Yes, that devil loves the odd drip. I rush to the back of the house and stare at the industrial faucet sticking out of the rusting, stainless steel backsplash. Is the tap damp or is that condensation? Hard to tell. I wrench both handles shut to ensure a tight seal.
I begin walking back to the front of the house, then stop.
No!
Another low lament bellows from below.
Think, Sandra, think. What else has a history of drips? Ah yes, my shower head has been an infamous culprit of yore. But since I installed this one, I have been blissfully free of the leaks that plagued the previous two. Still, you never know here. What works great one day will have a total meltdown the next.
I examine the blue and chrome shower head. The crusty holes looked parched as does the arm leading into the wall. How many of those holes still work? It is probably time to pull the thing off and soak it in vinegar again. But every time I do that, I lose more of those little plastic rings lining the inside of the holes. I am still getting a steady stream out of the half that work, so, yup, it’s staying put.
Resting my hands on my hips, I survey the room, listening. Nothing. Not a gurgle, a whinge or a wheeze. All is quiet.
I return to the living room.
A boisterous groan seeps up from under the floorboards.
What in the world is causing that?
Flummoxed, I march into the kitchen and turn off the breaker to the pump that pulls in water from my cistern. It won’t due to be wasting water. Although the city pumps regularly, my cistern is tiny, and I need a lot of water for the copious loads of laundry this climate compels me to do.
Where else? Where else could it be dripping?
The outside tap!
I always forget about that one. A good friend of mine installed it for me a year or two ago, slipping the PVC pipe through a gap in the stone wall enclosing the crawl space under my house.
Switching into my garden shoes, I walk the six paces to the faucet. Pearls of moisture are beading on the metal. Morning drip or morning dew? I give the spigot a solid turn counterclockwise just in case.
Back inside, I flip the breaker and wait a moment. All is quiet save for the rumble of the fridge. It should be safe to start a load of laundry. If there were a major leak, the pump would be turning on every few minutes. Maybe this morning’s series of groans and moans was just a cranky cluster from a wayward tap.
I gather my laundry basket and throw my clothes into the washer. My finger hovers over the inicio – start – button when I freeze. What if my water drained but did not fully empty while I was sleeping, blissfully unaware of impending doom, leaving me with a false sense of water security?
I dash out the deck door and sprint to my stone cistern, forgetting to take off my slippers. Leaning over the edge, I peer through a break in the cement cover and breathe a sigh of relief. A nice, scummy sheen of dark water gently ripples about six inches below the inlet pipe.
Later that afternoon as I am taking the laundry off the lines, there it is again, that dastardly, grating sound. It cannot be a fixture. I know I wrenched every tap tight. No loosy-goosy tap-turning for this chica.
I have only one option now. Turn off the pump. Again.
I trot back to the kitchen and glare at the breaker box, blaming it for my pump’s malfeasance. Actually, “box” is a misnomer. It’s more of an open panel with four switches: the left for the pump and range, the next one a useless dud and right two for all the switches and outlets.
Turning off only one of those last two still leaves the power on, so both switches need to be flipped up or down in tandem. I have no idea what that means in terms of how they are wired, but I am positive it is not to code. But then, is there an electrical code here? If the wiring in my house is any indication, then the answer would be no.
My house is powered by two wires running down the length of the attic. Spliced directly into those lines are wires that snake down between the walls to the light switches and outlets. But there are no boxes or wire nuts at those connections. The plastic coating on the main wire is simply scraped off, the bare ends of the down wires bent around the exposed area and the lot wrapped in electrical tape.
I shudder. Best not to think about it. My wiring has so much wrong with it, it gives me worse nightmares than the creepy crawlies that sometimes sneak into my home. I digress from the task at hand.
Click. Left breaker is off.
Thank goodness for small favors. At least I can turn the pump off without loosing power to the entire house. Whenever I need water, all I have to do is flip this little munster. Tomorrow I will do a more thorough search for the genesis of my leak. Or better yet, maybe I will be lucky, and the problem will resolve itself.
TUESDAY
Bleary eyed and foggy-brained from a restless night’s sleep, I lumber into the kitchen and flip the breaker. Nary a second and the pump starts to groan as it builds up pressure in the small, attached tank. Bummer. No overnight miracles for me.
At least the tank sounds like it is holding up. It’s a replacement for a larger one that corroded into a leaky mess.
So what’s the plumbing score since I bought this house five years ago?
– Water pumps – two
– Tanks – three
– Shower heads – three
– Toilets – two
– Toilet tank innards – four
– Laundry room sink faucets – two
– Washing machines – two
I probably should not count that first washing machine. It was a small portable one that connected to my kitchen sink, an interim solution until I added the laundry room. But then, I am scoping out number three already.
Between the humid, salt air and the salty city water, appliances don’t stand a chance here. Water is pumped from a shallow water table, which is brackish and corrosive. Our topography is not conducive to brilliant water. Utila is a diminutive island of seventeen square miles with one hill, Pumpkin Hill, standing at 74 meters (243 feet) high.
Eventually I would like to follow the lead of those islanders who collect water from their roofs. However, given that we have extended dry spells, that would require massive cisterns. That’s a big, pricy project. Perhaps after I fix the electrical.
I make my coffee as the sky begins to lighten, wishing that whatever is ailing my plumbing would go away. I have run through all the quick, easy-to-access possibilities, leaving me with the festering lines traversing the dark, dirty gloom under the house. With any luck it will be just a loose fitting. Sometimes the glue does not hold, and a connection wiggles apart.
Another protracted grumble nudges me into action. I suit up in full-length leggings, socks and a t-shirt, a suit of armor against the dangers that await me. I leave the pump on to help catch the culprit in flagrante delicto. With the heat here, a slow drip can dry up before you find it, so having pressure in the lines helps the search.
I almost forget to spray a good layer of bug spray on the last bit of exposed flesh, my arms. Best not make myself breakfast for the island’s wee munchers.
One last thing before heading out: hydration. I down a large glass of water and grab a flashlight. I mentally cross my fingers and hope for an easy fix.
Another low mechanical growl.
I trudge through the weeds (I really should weed whack them but that sounds like work – tomorrow, mañana) and walk to the back of the house, which is open below, making for easy, if not necessarily desirable, access.
Before venturing underneath, I inspect the lines clipped halfway up the side of the laundry room. They feed in and out of the on-demand, hot water heater on the other side of the wall. There isn’t much to see: two long, lime-green lines ending at green elbow joints where they enter the wall and white elbow joints where they turn under the house. The house painters in their infinite wisdom decided to match the pipes to the wall and painted over everything, including the shut off valve in the hot water line.
The camouflaged pipes look as dry as the wall they are clipped to. Not a drop of moisture any where. Nonetheless, I run a finger around the edge of each joint. Yup, bone dry. Everything is still holding after an initial leak three years ago when the laundry room was built.
Bending down, I peer underneath the modest addition. It sits on several large, three-foot high, concrete-filled, PVC pillars cemented into a concrete base, which was poured over tree trunks that were manually pounded into the soft, sea-level soil.
I follow the hot water line until it tees into a pipe that leads to the shower on the left and to the washing machine on the right. Well, at least that was the intent. I had quite the shock when I tried to hook up my new washer and discovered it was a cold-water-only machine. Next one will correct that oversight. The hot pipes appear to be fine.
Next, I scrutinize the cold water line, which connects into a pipe originating at the front of the house. Not a glint of water, so I look at the ground. Dirty and dry.
Shoot. The moment of truth is here.
I turn to the main house and wince at the sight. Dirt, filthy pipes and more dirt. A few crabs scuttle into their holes.
From the safety of the edge of the building, I can make out a shallow puddle in the center of the house from yesterday’s laundry. Like many older homes here, only the toilet is hooked up to the septic, the rest of the water flows under or to the side of the house, depending upon its construction. I hesitate to hook up grey water to my small, ancient, concrete-block septic. It’s not even built to handle toilet paper, which is typical here. As the saying goes, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. One day I will build a nice, new septic tank, but that’s another project for another day.
I swing the light on the lines disappearing into the darkness, but the beam is too weak to reflect any droplets of water. It is time to stop procrastinating and enter the bleak, dingy space. I crouch and shuffle a few steps into the inky depths, careful not to hit my head on the beams as I shine my light upwards along the lines.
My chest tightens. The air is thick and musty.
So far, nothing untoward. Just icky, grimy pipes mottled black and brown, years of dust obscuring the original ivory white.
Why couldn’t there be a glimmer near the edge of the house? Somewhere readily accessible?
I take a deep breath and scoot further in. My nostrils fill with the smell of stale, wet dirt.
On the left, just before the dark, grimy septic tank, I see the new plumbing leading to the exterior faucet, illuminated by a beam of light filtering in between the cracks in the rock. I move towards the light and run my fingers over the blue glue on the joints. Dry. Sigh. Here, too, the welds are holding after an initial leak two years ago and a switch to wet PVC glue.
Since I moved here, I have learned about the joys of wet PVC glue, which as its name implies can be used on wet piping. Nothing else works as well in this humid climate. Plus, it cures quickly. Being without water is not an option. Showers are de riguer at least once daily.
I squat-walk back to the center of the house and run the light over the blackened lines. My stomach turns at the sight of all that grotty grime from decades of languishing under the house, but nothing seems amiss. I should do a more thorough search, but I have had enough of gloom and doom.
The pipes shudder as the pump turns on again.
Where, oh where are you my little leak?
As I survey my dark domain, I have a brain wave. The fault may lie with the water pump!
I shuffle back out and shake my legs, happy to be standing again. I fill my lungs with fresh air and bask in light of day. Beautiful colors abound: saturated green banana leaves, brilliant blue skies, deep green lilies. Even the pale green of the weeds is welcoming. I can breathe again.
Refreshed and relieved, I walk to the front of the house where I stare at a small, rickety door with an even ricketier rusty latch guarding its entrance. My water pump is located behind that door in tiny, dark, musty, earthen chamber.
The thought of manhandling that old latch while simultaneously lifting the filthy door so I can jiggle out the corroded bolt can sends me straight inside. I have had enough dirt for today. I am perfectly fine with flipping the breaker on and off for another twenty-four hours. It is not like I have a gusher. More like a haphazard drip, leaking for a while, followed by a breather and then leaking some more.
WEDNESDAY
This morning I decide to wait until after breakfast to confirm my fears. Might as well read the news and complete the crossword, too. Why ruin a good morning?
Fully fed, watered, read and amused, I flip the breaker. On cue, the dry grind of the pump begins its rhythmic groans. One. Two. Three. Four. Silence.
Dejected, I prepare for another exhilarating episode of Find the Leak.
Kitted out in my black, knee-length leggings paired with skull-and-crossbones knee socks, I squat before the half door in front of the house and insert the key into the padlock. It unlocks without fuss, a blessing in this salty air. For grins, I try sliding the bolt, more rust than metal, with my bare fingers. Nada. Well, maybe a millimeter if I am being optimistic.
Grabbing the latch, I try to pull the door, which is surprisingly heavy given its petiteness, up while simultaneously banging on the end of the pin with the lock. I feel it give a millimeter this time, maybe even two, before sticking again. I need bigger ammunition. I scan the area around me and spot a rock at the base of the guava tree.
This would be so much easier if my ex-Marine buddy were here. The latch is butter in his strong, capable hands.
Bang. Bang. Bangabangabanga (I got impatient).
The bolt lurches forward, and I jostle it out the rest of the way.
Pulling open the door, I come face to face with my spare propane tank blocking the entrance. It is full and heavy, ready to be switched into action when my range breathes its last flame. I rock it towards the other tank on the left, which is connected to a yellow gas line snaking up through a hole beneath the kitchen.
When I bought the house, the propane tank was in a kitchen cabinet. Not an ideal location, especially in a small, space-starved kitchen. With the remodel, Mr. Propane was relocated to the pump room where he got a buddy. Now I never have to worry about running out of gas.
I survey the area for unwelcome visitors – spiders, lizards, snakes, scorpions. The coast is dirty, but clear.
Swat! Forgot about those pesky flying marauders. Grrr. I should have doused myself in insect repellent. Maybe I can make this quick.
I turn my attention to the orange water pump directly behind the propane tanks. It is bolted on top of a similarly-hued tank, which sits on a stout, wooden platform that protects it from the water seeping under the house after a prolonged rainfall. I crawl over and turn on my flashlight. No sign of moisture anywhere.
Perhaps the far end of the tank is leaking again. I close in to examine it, careful not to touch either the tank or the pump. When my buddy replaced the tank last year, he received a nasty shock even though the power to the house was shut off. My electrical system is one of the great mysteries of the world.
I don’t see any water spurting from a corroded connection like last time. Bolts are intact, and all is dry. Not time for tank number four, yet.
Maybe one of the lines traversing the short distance to the back wall has a leak. My eyes squint as the light catches a glint where the pipes enter the cinderblock wall. Is that water? Hard to tell. If it is a leak, it has to be coming from behind those blocks. I need to check the pipes on the other side – where I was yesterday.
Groan.
Mañana.
THURSDAY
My eyes flutter open. The soft glow of the emerging sun is seeping through my curtain. I yawn and stretch my arms. Another day in paradise. Oh wait. No it isn’t. It is another day of Tales from the Crypt: Plumbing Edition.
Postponing the inevitable, I take a stab at today’s crossword but am unable to fill in more than a handful of words. My mind keeps drifting back to the evil that lurks below. I give up. Might as well embrace the day’s misery.
I am out of leggings, so I don my brief, black athletic shorts and pair them with black and yellow banded knee highs. Unfortunately, given the plethora of diminutive, winged vampires, the ensemble leaves more skin exposed than is prudent. I compensate with a thorough layer of repellent and grab a handful of anti-mosquito pellets.
Retracing my steps from two days ago, I find myself once again staring at the back of the house. I shake my head. Sigh.
A squawky meow interrupts my consternation. I look up. Lily is watching me from the laundry room window.
“You’ve had enough, too, haven’t you?”
She paces the window sill and lets out another meow.
“Call 911 if I am not back in half an hour.”
I crouch down and crab-walk to the center of the house where I scatter the pellets on the shallow puddle so they can dissolve and kill any potential mossie eggs. I wrinkle my nose at the musty stench of old, wet dirt and turn back to the sunshine, tempted to make a run for it.
Reason wins out, and I direct my light towards the dingy, rectangular septic tank. In the distance, I can see the adjacent PVC lines leading to the pump room. Groaning, I waddle through the filth and press further into the doom and gloom, the weight of the house weighing heavily above me.
Two off-white pipes, surprisingly clean given the condition of the rest of the pipes crisscrossing above me, poke through a chink in the top of the block wall, one stacked a top the other. A film of moisture clings to their surface near the concrete. I touch the top pipe. Clammy. Ditto on the lower one.
Could the pipes be sweating, like the early morning sweat that runs down the glass door on my oven? Or are they leaking somewhere in between here and the pump room?
These pipes usually leak only where they connect, but there are no fittings on either side of this wall. However, given the wonkiness of my plumbing, I would not be surprised if there were a connection in the middle of the wall, right where I am unable to reach it. I try to shine my light into the cinder block, but the pipes are blocking my view.
It is time to resort to logic. Fact number one – both pipes are damp. A leak would most likely stem from one or the other but not both. However, one could be leaking on the other, so onto the next fact. Number two – pearls of water are beading all around the pipes, including the top half. That is not classic drip presentation. Conclusion – condensation. That is my verdict, and I am sticking with it.
I pause, listening to the rumble of a vehicle passing by. Something is not right.
Then it hits me. The pump has been blissfully silent this entire time. Maybe the problem has resolved itself. Joy, oh joy! Wouldn’t that be exquisite. Then I could avoid checking that last, most miserable possibility – the crab-infested warren beneath the kitchen.
FRIDAY
I wake up this morning feeling like my cat, Bruno. Bruno typically sports a testy look, ears half cocked, eyes hooded, a general cloud of annoyance hovering over him.
My eyes are crinkled and my nose is wrinkled – the human equivalent of a grumpy cat. Four days of looking for the leak has left me a tad testy.
Late yesterday afternoon, the pump resumed its litany of complaints. But perhaps a good night’s rest has done my plumbing system a world of good. Who am I kidding? There’s a 99.9% probability today will be the same as yesterday and the day before and the day before that.
I tromp to the kitchen and flip the breaker switch. There it is, my crusty morning serenade.
Coffee does little to alleviate my wicked mood. But then a thought strikes – I have not checked the plumbing running from the cistern. A cracked pipe perhaps? Maybe I don’t have to go under the deck outside my kitchen. Please. Please. Please.
I gear up in my best suit of armor, or more accurately, the only one I have left. I pull on a long-sleeved gardening shirt and my green-flecked, white painting overalls before heading out, ready to put myself out of my misery.
As I walk to my cistern, my stomach tightens. There is no way a leak prior to the pump would cause it to go off. Sure enough, the pipes leading into and out of my cistern look honky dory. Not a misty drop anywhere. The Hail Mary pass has been thrown and fumbled.
Pivoting around, I stare at the deck. Underneath is a dusty pile of lumber topped by an aluminum ladder locked to a post. Just past the pile is a small, half-rotten, partially-opened door, leading to a dark tomb.
The thought of having to crawl under the deck to that creepy chamber has my feet rooted in the gravel by the cement cistern. I have only once ventured in there to retrieve a nut that I accidentally dropped into the drain pipe when replacing the kitchen. My goof, my fix.
I shudder, picturing the coffin-like space replete with crabs, Jurassic cockroaches and who knows what else poised and ready to scare me. And yes, I did scream when something skittered in there before.
All right, feet. Move.
I stare at my shoes. They remain fused to the ground.
What is the probability that there is a leak in there? It must be negligible given there is only one hot and one cold pipe. Well, maybe not so small. Who knows how many fittings were cobbled together to make the connections into the kitchen. Potential leaks abound.
I have no choice.
I scuffle to the front edge of the deck and crouch down. This is a hands and knees job, and I don’t do dirt. Never have, never will. No thank you. I look at the pile of wood and spot a piece of cardboard wedged under a couple of boards. I pull it out, relieved it didn’t disintegrate into a hundred pieces.
Placing my hands on it, I scoot forward then bring up my legs behind me and repeat. The door is an even sorrier sight up close. The bottom is pulpy black.
Careful to tug above the line of decay, I pull the door out a couple of inches before it wedges into a pile of freshly pushed damp dirt. Lovely. Using both hands, I jerk it again. Grumble. I gained only an inch while adding half an inch to the sand berm.
I look around for something to flatten the mound. Bingo. I spot a scrap of lumber that has fallen off the wood pile. I lean over and retrieve it. I scrape away at the dune then pull on the door. It opens a bit more. Scrape, pull, scrape, pull until I have enough of an opening to to wedge myself inside.
First, though, I need to make sure the coast is clear. I turn on my flashlight and scan the dark chamber for miscreants. The sudden light sends a couple of large crabs scurrying into their holes. Then everything is still. No trace of mice, rats, cockroaches, scorpions or tarantulas milling about. Just a few crab carcasses by some forgotten lumber. My list of potential vermin complete, I tear off a piece of cardboard and slip it through the gap.
The witching hour is upon me. I take one last, long, deep breath and venture into the cramped space. My next breath is laden with heavy, humid, earthen air. I nearly choke.
The ground in front of my cardboard is wet from endless dishes. I need to be quick lest my sled disintegrate in the damp, leaving me in the dirt.
I shine my light on the plastic drain pipe, wondering what genius thought having water flow into a tiny, confined space under the house was a good idea. My beam also catches the pipes leading to the faucet. The larger cold line is mottled black and white with age while the three-year old, skinny hot water line is still a yellowy beige. Both seem fairly solid, but it is hard to see to the far end where they exit into another part of the house’s underbelly.
The air in here is horribly thick. The dark, dank dust hangs like a sepulchral shroud around me. I turn my head to the door and vainly attempt to take in a breath of fresh air.
My kingdom for a plumber. A good, old-fashioned Roto-Rooter man, like the one I went out with on a blind date many years ago. That man lived for plumbing. He spent our entire Starbucks date discussing plumbing fiascos created by those not in the plumbing know. Tip – do not put asparagus down your garbage disposal. Ever. It is too fibrous and will clog your pipes.
I bet a real plumber could listen to the cadence of my pump and know what is causing its grief. Alas, such expertise does not exist on this island where plumbing is but a collection of PVC pipes and fittings glued together, often times the more turns and kinks the better, resulting in a primordial spaghetti of tubing.
Maybe I should call it a day, but then I have no desire to enter this crypt again. Ever. I must be one hundred percent certain. I have to go deeper.
There is just enough space for me to glide forward past the wood heap. Is that my imagination, or are the walls closing in? My chest tightens and my breathing becomes labored as I press forward. My pulse races.
I look back at the meager, shadowy light seeping in through the door, wishing I were out there, but force myself to return to inspecting the lines. My light barely reaches where they pass through the wall. Nothing appears to be amiss. I debate crawling closer to alleviate any doubt but convince myself that would be for naught. There are no leaks here. Not a glimmer of moisture. Even the ground looks drier this far from the drain pipe.
I back out of the small space and try to shut the door, but there’s too much dirt in front. Dying for fresh air and sunshine, I give up and leave the door ajar. There are no valuables inside and this puny dungeon is good for nothing unless, of course, you need a concealed spot to hide a body. No one would find it in there.
Pushing my cardboard remnant in front of me, I crawl through the final bit of dust and reach fresh air and sunshine. I bounce up, take in a deep breath of hot, humid air and begin coughing, the dust of the past several days having invaded my being. Time to shower off the clammy, dirty dankness permeating my pores but not before throwing my dusty overalls and shirt directly into the washer lest they contaminate my hamper.
I am not even going to attempt today’s crossword puzzle. It has been a lousy enough day already.
SATURDAY
I stare into the mirror as I brush my teeth, totally flummoxed. Five days of searching. Five days of abject failure. All of the usual and unusual suspects checked off.
Sigh. I’ve been bested by my plumbing.
Then, I hear the toilet flush. I stop everything, making sure I heard right, and walk over to the toilet, toothbrush still in my foamy, toothpaste-filled mouth. I glance around for an accidental trigger. No cats. I stare at the bisque Corona, tank and bowl integrated into one sleek device, and my heart warms. I am still thrilled to have a shiny, new toilet even though it has been two years. That is one the small perks of living on an island, you appreciate the little things in life: water, sanitation, power.
My eyes are drawn to big silver button encircling a smaller blue one on the top of the tank. I know one is for a big flush and one is for a small flush, but they both seem the same to me. Wonder which button is which? A flush is a flush.
I lift up the lid and peer in. Water is filling the bowl.
No. It can’t be the toilet. Not after having scoured every dark, musty corner of my house. That is not possible. I replace the lid.
I shake my head, heading back to the sink where I wash my hands and finish brushing my teeth. Does the new tank flow valve need adjustment again? Could the solution can be that simple?
Returning to my porcelain goddess, I pull the lid off again. Water has stopped filling and is even with the top of the float. Everything seems fine. There is a dusting of red sediment at the bottom of the tank, a trifling compared to the sand dunes pre-valve replacement.
The only other mechanism in my toilet is the round cylinder that sits underneath the buttons integrated into the lid. I removed it and rinsed out the sediment when I replaced the tank valve a couple of weeks ago. It was full of brown coppery particles. Where does all that come from? My cistern? The public water supply? The previous corroded water pump tank? Who knows.
I examine the placement of the plastic buttons on the top of the cylinder and compare them to the buttons on the lid. They appear a bit off. I rotate the cylinder back and forth until I am satisfied the buttons line up perfectly and the cylinder is seated properly.
Now for the test. I replace the lid and flush the toilet. Once the tank is finished filling, I lean over and listen. Nothing. Not a hint of water leaking into the bowl.
I return to my chores, one ear cocked for the next unscheduled grievance from my pump. It never came the whole day. Just in case, I flip the breaker before tucking myself in.
SUNDAY
Good morning world!
I jump out of bed and start my coffee. While it is brewing, I stream soothing choral music from the Benedictine Monks of Santo Domingo de Silos to start my Sunday.
A divine cup of java in hand, I steel my nerves for the ultimate test. Did my lines hold overnight? Or will this resplendent morning be marred by the harsh metallic groans of my hard-working water pump?
I hesitate, my thumb and forefinger poised over the old, white-painted switch, then take in a big breath of air before flicking it up.
I exhale, staring at the switch. Nothing but the relaxing sounds of monks drifting through my house.
“Ave plena gratiea . . . Sancta Maria . . .”
Victory!
And on the seventh day she rested.
© 2020 Sandra Y. K. Loder
Originally published June 20, 2020
