January brought changes to the homestead -- some more subtle than others.
Early this month, the wet snow and ice storm took out the tree in the front yard. It came down with a crack at about 7 a.m., falling just short of the house.
"I was going to hang the hummingbird feeder on that tree," Michelle said.
Our neighbor Bob was nice enough to come over the next morning with a couple of bowsaws and a chainsaw, and we made short work of things. Later I bought some nippers to cut the branches into smaller segments, and they'll eventually go for a ride to the town compost heap, now that we have the truck running again.
The heavy wet snow also made me think about the trees that provide such a lush, shady spot for our house .. the same trees that now hung over the house weighed down with snow, looking like cotton ready for harvest.
Add to to-do list: have trees cut down.
That same storm kept the electricity off for about, oh, 12 hours. Now I know conditions made things difficult for our friendly neighborhood electric utility, but half the neighborhood had power about two hours before we did. Turns out the neighborhood is on two separate portions of the grid.
And for what we pay CL&P per month, well... let's just say they have infrastructure issues.
Needing to stay warm when it got cold and dark, we used the fireplace for the first time.
So you're from the Berkshires and you think you know what you're doing, eh, Mr. Frontiersman? Mr. I Grew Up In The Woods?
For about half an hour, the only thing I was able to get burning was newspaper.
Finally, the logs the former owners left behind for us caught, and we had a nice, cozy fire.
Either the fire was too big or I didn't have enough of an updraft going, because for more than a week afterwards, the living room smelled of smoke. This is charming on a cold day when a fire is roaring away, keeping people warm and drying out gloves and boots. This is annoying a week later when you're tired of living in a barbecue pit.
So yes, we're so much smarter and more advanced than our forebears in the 19th century. Who lived without electricity and knew how to set a fire.
A Little Sumpthin' Sumpthin'
If the house wasn't freezing, on fire or in imminent danger of being crushed by overloaded trees, it was going to float away. Another strong rainstorm came along and filled the sumphole with water, requiring us to go downstairs every half hour to manually set off the sump pump that couldn't suck enough.
When another forecast of one-to-two inches of rain came along I decided I'd had enough. Called a plumber and had them come over look at the thing. Figured it would take a few hundred bucks and a few small repairs to get things where they needed to be.
Ha!
We needed a new sump pump, an entirely new hole, and oh yes, electrical work. Becuase all this time the old pump was plugged into an ungrounded outlet. Yes, that was me, manually operating a sump pump sitting in a pit full of water plugged into an ungrounded outlet. I was begging for a 120-volt quick pick-me-up and didn't even know it. Swell.
So Chuck the plumber came in with his jackhammer and brand new sump pump and one and a quarter inch PVC pipe and got to carving up the basement floor.
It was not a few small repairs and it was not a few hundred bucks. You could say I put my money in a hole in the ground.
But that afternoon when it poured as forecasted, that pump kicked on every five minutes and did its business in about 5-10 seconds. The peace of mind was entirely worth it. Because flooding the basement again was not an option.
Now if I can just figure out how we'll run the sump pump when the power goes out...
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Thanksgiving in Farmington, CT
Woke up yesterday morning to the sight of snow falling steadly outside our windows. Except here, the plow comes regularly .. back in Quincy it requires a Biblical snowstorm to get a plow on a side street the same day. If at all.
The folks came down from the Berkshires and up from New Jersey and we had a nice meal, with everyone's attention on how much my daughter has learned and grown in the past year or so. Because we're here and not near Boston, we're closer to those family members and already we've seen them more than we did in five years there.
It was a lovely meal, but it was also a lovely day, even with the snow and LemonTruck deciding it was time for the gear box to die.
I thought a lot about this holiday on two fronts.
First, its historical meaning and significance.
The source of the T-Day myth comes from two paragraphs -- one in a pamphlet published in 1622 titled "Mourt's Relation," another from "Of Plymouth Plantation," the diary/memoir written by Mass. Bay Colony Gov. William Bradford. That's it: two paragraphs relating to a feast of some sort to which Massasoit and about 90 native americans were invited.
For one group, it was the end of the beginning. They had endured horrible hardship, seen half of their number perish, and yet made it through. They were going to survive.
For one group, it was the beginning of the end. These white settlers who had arrived on their shore a year ago were going to stay, and more like them would arrive. They had guns, they had germs for which there was no resistance, they had plans fueled by religious fervor and the machinery of the mercantile system and their own dreams.
Within a generation or two, the two sides that came together for a feast in 1621 were fighting King Phillip's War, a guerilla conflict in which scorched earth policies and collateral damage were the rule, not the exception. Its scars persist.
On a day when Americans are thankful, the price that was paid by all involved -- espescially those from whom much was taken -- is worth remembering.
Second point: About year ago, a PBS series called "Colonial House" aired. In it, Americans from the 21st Century were sent to live in a 17th Century colonial village. They didn't fare so well, but that was besides the point: In their struggle, I saw my own struggle to find a place where my family could afford to live happily and safely, where I could make a good living, where my daughter could play and grow and thrive. It resonated. And it upset me to some degree because like the would-be settlers, I was having a hard time succeeding at my goal.
So a year later, to be here and realize that which seemed so far away has come true .. well, I have much to be thankful for. And so celebrating over a hearty meal with family and friends... it felt good.
We are indeed blessed.
The folks came down from the Berkshires and up from New Jersey and we had a nice meal, with everyone's attention on how much my daughter has learned and grown in the past year or so. Because we're here and not near Boston, we're closer to those family members and already we've seen them more than we did in five years there.
It was a lovely meal, but it was also a lovely day, even with the snow and LemonTruck deciding it was time for the gear box to die.
I thought a lot about this holiday on two fronts.
First, its historical meaning and significance.
The source of the T-Day myth comes from two paragraphs -- one in a pamphlet published in 1622 titled "Mourt's Relation," another from "Of Plymouth Plantation," the diary/memoir written by Mass. Bay Colony Gov. William Bradford. That's it: two paragraphs relating to a feast of some sort to which Massasoit and about 90 native americans were invited.
For one group, it was the end of the beginning. They had endured horrible hardship, seen half of their number perish, and yet made it through. They were going to survive.
For one group, it was the beginning of the end. These white settlers who had arrived on their shore a year ago were going to stay, and more like them would arrive. They had guns, they had germs for which there was no resistance, they had plans fueled by religious fervor and the machinery of the mercantile system and their own dreams.
Within a generation or two, the two sides that came together for a feast in 1621 were fighting King Phillip's War, a guerilla conflict in which scorched earth policies and collateral damage were the rule, not the exception. Its scars persist.
On a day when Americans are thankful, the price that was paid by all involved -- espescially those from whom much was taken -- is worth remembering.
Second point: About year ago, a PBS series called "Colonial House" aired. In it, Americans from the 21st Century were sent to live in a 17th Century colonial village. They didn't fare so well, but that was besides the point: In their struggle, I saw my own struggle to find a place where my family could afford to live happily and safely, where I could make a good living, where my daughter could play and grow and thrive. It resonated. And it upset me to some degree because like the would-be settlers, I was having a hard time succeeding at my goal.
So a year later, to be here and realize that which seemed so far away has come true .. well, I have much to be thankful for. And so celebrating over a hearty meal with family and friends... it felt good.
We are indeed blessed.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Crash on the Levee
"Now it's king for king, queen for queen,
It's gonna be the meanest flood anybody's seen."
- "Down in the Flood," Bob
It was 3:45 a.m. and I had just gotten home from work. I opened the door to the basement, turned on the light, and walked down the stairs.
Oh, no.
soggy basement
About a foot of water. Everywhere. The entire length and breadth of the basement, covered. An indoor lake. A groundwater swimming pool.
Anything that was on the floor was soaked, possibly ruined.
I had worried about flooding since it had rained more than a week steady here in CT. (Later, we would learn it was the second-rainiest month on record, second only to August 1955, when the remnants of two hurricanes flooded this state, killing 87 people.) I don't know if the sump pump failed or if it had been overwhelmed. But there it was.
"911, what's your emergency?"
Funny. Driving home I had been behind a truck from Tunxis Hose Company No. 1, the volunteer department that serves our part of town. "They must have been busy tonight, I thought.
Before I knew it Rescue 15 was outside my door, setting up shop for the umpteenth basement pump-out of the evening.
firefighter in basement
Let me tell you something: These guys had been going all night ... they could have been surly and tired and I would have understood. But they were professional and treated our call like it was the first of the night, not the last. They rocked.
They were done by about 5, leaving Michelle and I to sort through what got wet and see what we could salvage.
Some stuff got ruined. But other items ... including my journal of Michelle's pregnancy and the first card she ever gave me, were saved. It was hit and miss.
Dad drove down from Massachusetts that morning with a wet-dry vac, some fans and a dehumidifier. We got most of it cleaned out and on the road to dryness, and if there was a bright side, it was this: the basement is a lot cleaner and more organized.
Things to do: Get a new sump pump.
It's gonna be the meanest flood anybody's seen."
- "Down in the Flood," Bob
It was 3:45 a.m. and I had just gotten home from work. I opened the door to the basement, turned on the light, and walked down the stairs.
Oh, no.
soggy basement
About a foot of water. Everywhere. The entire length and breadth of the basement, covered. An indoor lake. A groundwater swimming pool.
Anything that was on the floor was soaked, possibly ruined.
I had worried about flooding since it had rained more than a week steady here in CT. (Later, we would learn it was the second-rainiest month on record, second only to August 1955, when the remnants of two hurricanes flooded this state, killing 87 people.) I don't know if the sump pump failed or if it had been overwhelmed. But there it was.
"911, what's your emergency?"
Funny. Driving home I had been behind a truck from Tunxis Hose Company No. 1, the volunteer department that serves our part of town. "They must have been busy tonight, I thought.
Before I knew it Rescue 15 was outside my door, setting up shop for the umpteenth basement pump-out of the evening.
firefighter in basement
Let me tell you something: These guys had been going all night ... they could have been surly and tired and I would have understood. But they were professional and treated our call like it was the first of the night, not the last. They rocked.
They were done by about 5, leaving Michelle and I to sort through what got wet and see what we could salvage.
Some stuff got ruined. But other items ... including my journal of Michelle's pregnancy and the first card she ever gave me, were saved. It was hit and miss.
Dad drove down from Massachusetts that morning with a wet-dry vac, some fans and a dehumidifier. We got most of it cleaned out and on the road to dryness, and if there was a bright side, it was this: the basement is a lot cleaner and more organized.
Things to do: Get a new sump pump.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Paging Oscar T. Grouch...
It's garbage day here in Farmington. But not any garbage day -- bulk collection day, when they let you throw out anything that's not radioactive or full of heavy metals.
The odd thing about this is what people throw away -- and what other people do with things people throw away.
First, the curbsides: All kinds of usable stuff, stuff that really could or should be donated or resold. Children's toys in working order, decent furniture, storage units, charcoal and gas grills, housing materials (windows, molding, lumber), the list goes on. It's an interesting illustration of our throwaway society, and I don't seek to indict or single out my new home town because lots of other folks throw away perfectly good stuff, too, all over this country.
But here's the interesting part.
After said stuff was placed on said curbs yesterday, I noticed lots of pickup trucks and vans trolling the neighborhood.
Federal agents?
Would-be thieves?
No, garbage pickers! It was trick-or-treat consignment shop weekend, and the dealers were out "shopping" for the best stuff. We drove around town yesterday and saw this elsewhere, too.
I've seen folks rummaging through the trash for bottle deposits -- in Pittsfield and in Boston -- but this was the first time I ever saw Dumpster-diving antique dealers.
I wonder how much the old desk we put out will fetch -- despite the fact it's broken?
The odd thing about this is what people throw away -- and what other people do with things people throw away.
First, the curbsides: All kinds of usable stuff, stuff that really could or should be donated or resold. Children's toys in working order, decent furniture, storage units, charcoal and gas grills, housing materials (windows, molding, lumber), the list goes on. It's an interesting illustration of our throwaway society, and I don't seek to indict or single out my new home town because lots of other folks throw away perfectly good stuff, too, all over this country.
But here's the interesting part.
After said stuff was placed on said curbs yesterday, I noticed lots of pickup trucks and vans trolling the neighborhood.
Federal agents?
Would-be thieves?
No, garbage pickers! It was trick-or-treat consignment shop weekend, and the dealers were out "shopping" for the best stuff. We drove around town yesterday and saw this elsewhere, too.
I've seen folks rummaging through the trash for bottle deposits -- in Pittsfield and in Boston -- but this was the first time I ever saw Dumpster-diving antique dealers.
I wonder how much the old desk we put out will fetch -- despite the fact it's broken?
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