Warning: Disgusting Topic Ahead

I never thought I would say this: my septic system has brought me joy. Okay, admittedly the joy is roundabout and tinged with horrors from the past, but it is joy. I will be as succinct as possible.

Shortly after Richard moved to Hood River, our septic system failed. Welcome to the Northwest! Now, I don’t know of anyone who would call that a fun experience, but it was what it was. However, the solution was traumatic for me.

Wayno had spent years trying to make the yard presentable. In one fell septic-sweep, close to half of the yard that he cared for so tenderly was ripped to shreds. Stone walls were thrown to the side. Plants we killed. His peach tree was torn out by the roots: an unkind remembrance for a kind soul.

But we had a new septic system. And it worked. We got a letter from the Hood River County Health Department saying that our septic system was not up to code. They had allowed it to pass, because our other options were so astronomically unreasonable. But they cautioned us to treat it gently, little suggestion like, “Rather than have a ‘wash day’, do only one load of laundry a day. Install a low flow showerhead and make sure your toilet is not draining.” Totally reasonable suggestions, and we welcomed them.

For a while it was heaven. Then one wet, nasty spring day there was that telltale leakage in the yard. We called to have the septic tank pumped. Glenn was unoptimistic, you know, the heavy clay soil up here. And the plumber we called later said we were in deep doo-doo. (Pun intended.)

But, by summer it was fine. Then the next spring wasn’t quite as wet, but there was a little problem. And then the summer after that was fine, etc…. But this spring was bad. I could no longer ignore it. (Thank Richard’s badgering for that.)

So, “Where is the joy”, you are asking?

Our new septic technologist called. This is not the tree-falling, hill-moving, boulder-crushing travail that I envisioned. Mt. Hood is safe from the backhoe. It’s just that the septic system we had put in about ten years ago was put in really badly, less than a third of the drain field was functional. I’m sure the repair won’t be cheap, but I could dance in the streets when I compared it to the alternatives.

And yes, it is snowing again.

As Richard and I sit and watch the big white flakes drop from the sky and, mercifully, melt upon contact with the ground, we discuss possible locales for a summer vacation. My first idea was a 4 or 5 day trip to Montreal and Quebec City, Canada. We could enjoy some French culture at a moderate distance. Richard truly warmed to that idea.

My second suggestion was to go to one of the traditional, east coast gay resorts like Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, Fire Island, New York or Provincetown, Massachusetts. I thought it might be fun to have a “gay” vacation, something neither of us has ever done before. Richard was at best lukewarm to the idea.

My third suggestion left Richard colder than Iceland: Saco, Montana where Gertrude Crutchfield and Frank Vagg met and married. The town is steeped in our (okay, you’re going to have to close your eyes and pretend to see this) family history. Frank is sitting on the shelf, big as life. But it seems the Saco Hilton has closed, and Richard won’t lower himself to stay at a lesser brand.

Sometimes I think everyone is picking on me.

Now it's Michael Fry and T. Lewis with Over the Hedge.

Triangle Shirtwaist Fire

Don't go, Liz

It's too soon for you to leave!

Only in the New York Times

Yes, in this Sunday’s New York Times Magazine there was a wonderful article entitled “Starter Castles”. And yes, that is really what it was about. Buying your first castle.

There was humor in the article, but I think, deep down, they were serious. It had amazing pictures, titillating descriptions, awesome locations and (gasp) asking prices.

Who would have thought that for a cool million (and a super major heavy chunk of change), you could own your own castle in County Tipperary, Ireland. The building has been renovated to ‘a comfortable standard’. I think that translates to non-realtor English as ‘yes, they finally put in some plumbing.’

I’d be all over it, but they have this bench on the front lawn that is just so out of place. It kills the deal.

Stephan Pastis strikes again.

Where would Metropolis be without phonebooths? No! I am not old! I refuse to grow up!