Way Out in the Country

Way out in the country, how many people does it take to go to the bathroom?

“OK. On ‘hup-two-hike’ you do a down & out towards the feed bin. Curl right and head for the pig trough. I’ll fade back, then sneak towards the out-house, where I’ll stop and use the bathroom. Then, we’ll run the play again, so you can go.”

It’s been years since going to the bathroom was treated like an athletic event, but that’s the way it had to be because the only access to the out-house was through the old chicken yard, and it was guarded by a fiercely territorial killer goose.

Out of necessity, going to the bathroom at an uncle’s farm was a family affair. Someone had to distract the goose so somebody else could “go.” Night time was the worst. The blasted beast never slept. It didn’t matter that it was pitch dark, because the goose had the yard memorized and could move fast in any direction.

Nobody wanted to go at night, but if it had to be, it was best not to go alone. That’s why the diversion plays were invented. If the goose could be distracted, the chicken yard could be safely crossed. Then, the little one-seat shack could be entered and used, but the diversion had to be repeated for a safe, un-pecked return. This procedure was required for every person who had to go, night or day.

A visiting cousin didn’t believe in the family’s theory of “safety-in-numbers.” Certain he could handle one little bird, he took an evening trip across the chicken yard for what would later become the legend of “Cousin Bob’s Midnight Run For The Privy.”

Wearing a nightshirt, cousin Bob entered the chicken yard, closed the gate, and disappeared into the night. It was too dark to see anything, but the noises told the story. Off to the left, a sudden flapping and slapping of wings and webbed feet signaled the start of the attack. Feathers rustled. Feet meant for water now beat the earth in a rapid, waddling rhythm that moved towards the center of the yard.

A sudden honk followed by a human shriek heralded the letting of first blood. Howling and honking, flapping of wings against nightshirt, slapping of arms against feathers revealed that the battle was engaged. The sounds of running feet- goose and human- moved in the dark towards the far side.

A door slammed.

Silence.

Cousin Bob shouted in the night, “I’m gonna stay for a minute, then you gotta get me out-a-here!”

The goose was so upset it took several diversion plays to get her away from the outhouse, but eventually Bob was rescued.

So, way out in the country, how many people does it take to go to the bathroom? It takes just one to go, but it could take a whole family to come back.

In America, modern indoor plumbing is only a little over a hundred years old. A European invention called the Trap meant that mankind could hear a new sound: gurgling water leaving the house.

There’s a Trap for every plumbing fixture. If you have indoor plumbing, you have many Traps. One is under the kitchen sink. Most people think it’s there to catch wedding rings that slip off in the dishwater. Actually the Trap fills with water and keeps sewer gas from entering the house.

Modern civilization owes it’s very nature to the Trap. It wouldn’t be practical to have shopping malls or huge sporting events or even super-churches where lots of people need water based facilities.

In honor of the Trap, which led to the development of the indoor out-house, I hereby establish the Andy Bozeman Zodiac and proclaim this year to be THE YEAR OF THE TOILET.

I call on everyone who has indoor plumbing to join me in this ritual: Print this article. Frame it and hang it above the toilet of your choice. Every time you jiggle the handle, recite the poem, and be thankful. Without the Trap we could still be subjected to a daily dose of out-house aroma, and maybe a thrilling chase through a chicken yard. Imagine that at a shopping mall.

I don’t miss the aroma but I do long for the youthful days, when I could outrun a goose.

Birthday Potty

by Andy Bozeman

Happy Birthday Little Pot.

You’re a thing I’m glad I’ve got.

Let’s skip the lovey-dovey mush,

‘Cause I just like you for your flush.

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TV DINNER CHRISTMAS

Christmas is a target for more than retail sales. It’s also a cut-off time. “We Just Have To Be In By Christmas” is the theme song for any family trying to build during late Summer and Fall. However, it’s only the cut-off time by default, because the last season, whose theme song was “We Just Have To Be In By Thanksgiving” came and went without enough of the house being finished to move in.

Ned (never his real name) was anxious to finish building. His family’s most recent Thanksgiving dinner had been served from little, toaster-oven heated, foil pans divided into small basins, each holding a single element of the season’s traditional feast. Turkey, dressing, gravy, and green peas were all separated by metallic barriers.

During the entire meal those silvery dividers constantly reminded Ned that he too was separated from the new home he had hoped to be in when he ate his Thanksgiving dinner. The worst part was desert. He had planned an authentic Baked Alaska, filled with homemade peppermint ice cream, covered with mountains of meringue, drizzled with raspberry liqueur, and set ablaze with imported rum. Instead, he used a flimsy plastic knife to crow-bar a lump of fruity cobbler-like substance from a compartment unwilling to yield it’s contents.

It was that despicable desert experience that pushed Ned over the edge. Without considering that he was clueless about construction, Ned pushed aside his contractor and took control of his housing destiny.

He only had to order the wood flooring, kitchen appliances, shrubs and topsoil, and just install everything. That was almost nothing.

As the reader, I can tell you that “almost nothing” is not a valid concept in construction. You don’t “just install” anything. That’s why there are professional specialists for everything from hauling dirt to sanding floors. That’s why there are building codes and inspectors. Nothing is ever simple. We are never safe from ourselves.

Ignorance was no deterrent for this man, now driven mad by an undefeatable desert. Ned no longer saw an order of events and inspections for the proper completion of his new home. All he could see now was Christmas dinner.

The heating contractor had delivered the furnace, but it wasn’t hooked up when a severe cold spell settled in to stay through the end of the year.

Oak planks were delivered and left stacked in the cold house. Ned would be the installer, but not now. Three weeks later he was proud of the wood floor he alone installed in an unheated house. Besides, those rough spots and splinters could be fixed.

The cold, dry air energized Ned. Anxious to achieve perfect flower beds , he was overly generous with topsoil and mulch, piling it extra-deep against the house.

The furnace was connected, the stove set in place, the floor was swept and the last layer of mulch was applied to the shrubs. Ned moved into his new home three full days before Christmas, just as the rain set in.

The cold, dry air may have invigorated Ned but it also shrank the planks. They got installed in a contracted state. When the heat was turned on and the rain was diverted into the house by the extra-deep topsoil, the wood began to expand, then buckle, then curl. Ned’s wood floor began to resemble the twists and turns of a thrill ride at an amusement park. He swallowed his pride and called everybody he knew for help. Nobody could come until after the holidays.

At least he was in the house and could have that fantasy feast. Then he realized that the electrician had never been called to connect the outlet for the stove. The electrician couldn’t come until after Christmas. Not knowing what to do next, he just waited for it to stop raining. It didn’t.

On the big day the family gathered for a Christmas morning fire but there was no firewood. Ned considered burning some of his curvy wood floor, but it was too wet.

Instead, the family gathered in the dining room, said the blessing and ate the finest traditional Christmas feast available in little, toaster-oven heated, foil pans. Then, Ned taught them a new theme song, “We’ve just Got To Get This Fixed By Easter.”

end

Tiger And The Tile Tale

I spent several childhood years living with my parents and sister in my grandmother’s house. The floors all over the house were wood, and they were kept waxed and polished and just slippery enough so a mid-sized cat could mimic a hockey puck.

My sister had a cat named Tiger. I found that if I ran through the kitchen past the cat’s favorite sleeping place dragging a rubber mouse tied to a piece of string, the cat would awake, jump up and chase the mouse. I would lead the chase through the den, down the hall and across the living room, where I would jerk the mouse onto the small rug by the front door as I took a sharp right turn into the front bedroom. (I was barefooted for better traction). The cat would see the mouse on the rug and without breaking stride, pounce full speed to make the capture. As soon as the cat’s weighted momentum made contact, the rug would absorb all of the inertia and, unhindered by friction (remember the highly polished floor?) skid the remaining few feet and slam the full force of the cat’s mass into the front door, finally coming to rest in a heap of carpet folds and cat fur. There was a moment when all was silent and motionless. Then, Tiger would slowly crawl out of the heap making no attempt to hide his embarrassment, while I stood grinning ear to ear and thinking “........Every time”.

The piece of that story I want you to remember is the folded rug. The door wouldn’t move, so the rug absorbed the shock by folding.

Here’s what started this whole topic. I saw a tile terrace located between a house and a massive, masonry garden wall. The tile was badly buckled, sort of folded like that rug with the cat on it. At the base of the brick wall, at each corner where the terrace met the house, were two wide cracks rising from the tile up the brick wall about sixteen inches. At first glance it appeared to be a foundation failure. But expansion was the culprit.

The tile had been placed directly against the brick wall of the house on one side, and the garden wall on the other. When summer temperatures soared to unseasonable highs, the tile expanded pushing against both the house and the garden wall. The garden wall was massive. It didn’t move at all, so the expansion pressure shifted toward the house. Brick is very strong vertically, but has less strength from side to side. That’s because brick walls on most houses are hollow. The brick cracked exactly at the points where pressure was applied by the expanding tile. Eventually the brick had moved as far as it could against the structure of the house. Trapped between the house and the garden wall, the still expanding tile began to buckle on itself.

Only one thing was needed to avoid this problem — room to expand. There’s a construction thing called an expansion joint. It’s nothing more than a gap that puts space between a material that will expand, and a material that won’t. If such a gap had been built-in with that tile terrace, it could have expanded as much as it needed without ever coming into contact with the house or the garden wall.

Other materials will behave in similar fashion. If wood or vinyl or tile are installed when it’s too cold or too dry, they will be in a contracted state. Then, as temperatures and humidity rise, those materials will begin to expand. If no room has been allowed, pressure will be forced against whatever is beside the material. Brick will break, wood floors will dome up, vinyl will ripple, tile will buckle and cat-rugs will fold..............every time.

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The Neighborhood Arms Race

It’s Thanksgiving. Be thankful you don’t live in this neighborhood. But, if you do, then never mind.

In a rural, upscale housing development two neighbors share a passion for yard care. Bill pounces like a tiger on anything that lands in his crystal clear swimming pool. Zino fanatically  scouts his lawn for any blemish to the putting-green surface.

In this episode we’ll watch them use the gifts of communication and compassion to delicately assist one another toward the goal of becoming complete baboons.

It started so innocently. A child helping his dad clean the yard tossed hedge clippings over the fence to finish quicker. When the neighbor discovered the dried stems scattered on his lawn, he threw them back.

Bill, the original owner of the clippings, didn’t realize they were his and again tossed them across the fence. This agricultural exchange continued for several days.

A note was skewered to the chain link. “Returning your trash from my yard. Added leaves that blew over from your trees.- Zino”

Bill impaled a return note on the same fence. “If my leaves can’t drift into your yard, then the smell from your dog pen can’t drift into mine. Tear it down.”

The next day Bill was supervising his son’s pellet rifle target practice. A bird flew across both yards and landed in a tree on Zino’s property. The temptation was too great for the boy. He aimed and fired. The shot missed the bird but glanced off the tree trunk and harmlessly clinked off a window of Zino’s house.

Zino appeared holding a shot gun. “If you’re shooting into my yard, I’m shooting into yours!” he shouted as he raised the barrel and fired straight up. Seconds later a rain of buckshot peppered the surface of Bill’s swimming pool.

Turn about was fair play to Bill who got his shotgun and returned a twelve gauge volley across Zino’s perfect lawn. For twenty minutes the warriors sent barrages of buckshot arcing through space to litter the opponents manicured property.

Hundreds of lead dots accumulated on the bottom of the pool. This didn’t suit Bill at all so he brought out a pistol. “Let’s see how your perfect little lawn likes a three-fifty-seven!,” and he fired several rounds into Zino’s yard. Each round blew up an ugly divot as it entered the grassy carpet.

Finally the boy could take no more. “Dad, what are you two doing!?”

The voice of the child conjured the voice of reason. Both men stood dumb-struck at what had just transpired. They somberly promised to never again raise fire arms against the other’s lawn.

Zino spied a pine cone in his yard next to the fence. He didn’t own a pine tree but Bill did. “OK” Zino said as he picked up the pine cone, “we can be friends again, but I’m keeping the dog pen.” He casually tossed the cone over the fence into Bill’s yard.

 “The plat restrictions say you can’t put up a dog pen!” Bill yelled as he picked up the pine cone and tossed it back at Zino’s feet.

“The restrictions don’t even mention a dog pen” Zino returned angrily, and he threw back the pine cone along with a piece of shot-up turf.

“They say no obnoxious activity,” Bill responded as he once again stooped for the pine cone and scanned the ground for something extra to throw with it.

Zino decided a preemptive strike was in order so he charged into the nearby dog pen and scooped up a handful of the ultimate weapon.

With ammunition in hand they faced off across the chain link. Each glared at the other with tight-jawed, squinty-eyed rage. For several moments nothing happened. Just waiting. Then suddenly each was blind-sided by an irresistible surge of common sense.

“What are we doing?” each asked himself. “I’m a grown man. This is ridiculous.”

Bill knew that throwing a hard pine cone at this close range could really hurt Zino. He didn’t want that. He dropped his ammunition and relaxed his stance.

Zino realized that throwing his dog-pen-grenade could only make matters worse. “Also,” he thought feeling the stickiness in his fist, “It was a really bad idea to pick it up bare handed.”

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THE EIGHT LOBE

This home building horror story was brought to my attention by an engineer who had been asked to look at a foundation slab. He arrived at the site before the owner and took the opportunity to look over the concrete pad which would soon support a new house. The engineer checked the corners- they were all perfectly square. Next he got down on his knees and looked across the surface. It was perfectly smooth. He used an instrument called an “eye-level” to see that the surface was perfectly flat. Then the owner arrived

The first words out of the owners mouth were, “You see the problem? What can I do about it?”

The engineer was confused. He told the owner that he had already looked closely at the slab and could find nothing wrong. “In fact” he said “it’s one of the best concrete finishing jobs I’ve ever seen. What’s the problem?”

“Look Again” the owner instructed, then continued, “I’m personally building this entire house. I did the finishing work on that slab myself and I agree- it’s a perfect job, but there’s a reason. No pipes were in the way. I forgot to put in the plumbing.”

The owner wanted to know if there was an inexpensive way to install the plumbing without damaging the concrete. The engineer explained that tunneling under the slab would be expensive and could weaken the ground supporting the house. Cutting through the concrete to install all of the plumbing would require so many holes and ditches that future cracking problems were unavoidable. There was no cheap way out.

Cataclysmic errors and unbelievable omissions are performed regularly by people of high intelligence. I think I know why.

When I was learning how to count and write numbers, I did pretty well with everything but the number eight. Unlike a one, it has no straight lines. Unlike a five or six, it’s supposed to end where it starts. Swirling over and down, then under and back across itself in a never ending circuit was a never ending challenge for a little boy holding a pencil as thick as his wrist.

But, there were times when the number eight posed no problem at all. I could write it error free anytime it was the wrong answer. I remember the frustration of seeing a perfect eight whose existence on my paper had to be erased. I believe the human brain has a special section that’s in charge of making mistakes. I call it “the eight lobe.” It’s primary function is to perform any task absolutely perfectly at absolutely the wrong time. The other parts of the brain can usually hold the eight lobe in check, but occasionally for reasons not yet understood by brain science, the eight lobe is able to take control of the entire thinking process and, once loose, cannot be stopped until the task at hand is complete.

That explains why intelligent people can make such major home building mistakes. They haven’t lost their intelligence. They just have an “eight lobe” that’s run amuck.

End

Modern Cooking

The twentieth century has seen the greatest changes in cooking and food storage since the introduction of fire. A real flame-kissed steak is a weekend luxury in a world where food is most commonly made safe to eat by the same high energy beam the military uses to knock down enemy satellites. Storing leftovers is easier than ever as refrigerators are made larger and more efficient. But those changes have also caused  some adjustments in the way we cook our food, and plan our homes.

Technology and modern style trends have joined to create new cooking surfaces for ranges and cook-tops. The surface material is a special type of glass that allows computer controlled heat to flow evenly to the bottom of pots, pans and skillets. The material allows nearly perfect temperature control, and the smooth surface is attractive and easy to wipe clean. So, what’s the adjustment? It’s the pots and pans. If cookware isn’t perfectly flat on the bottom, it won’t make proper contact with the heated surface of the range top, so food won’t cook right. The cast iron frying pan is out because it can scratch the glass surface, and don’t even think of dropping it. Even the way food is prepared has to be more carefully monitored. Remember the “easy-to-wipe-clean” part? A salty or sugary boil-over can cause pitting, or harden to a heat tempered glaze. Some manufacturers are providing a “paint scraper” device for removing  baked on spills.

Refrigerators have become larger, as cooling systems become smaller. But, efficient integration into common kitchen spaces is lagging behind. Some new models must be placed so doors can open back a full 180 degrees or the crisper drawers won’t open. Many existing kitchen floor plans put the ‘fridge in a corner which prevents new doors from opening back far enough. Everyday people bring home a new unit to an old kitchen only to find they can’t use all of the wonderful new features that looked so great in the show-room. Other models are too wide or too tall to fit into the space that used to hold the old “side-by-side.”

My college days saw the introduction of microwave ovens in campus snack-centers. The miracle of heating food at lightening speed was a mixed blessing, however. Everyone had a problem remembering to open food packages before placing them into the amazing magic oven. The contents rapidly heated causing trapped moisture to flash to steam inside the sealed package. The plastic packages of sandwiches and milk cartons were no match against the power of steam which would rip them open, often violently.

Early morning saw a constant parade of people desiring warm sausage biscuits or hot chocolate. Instead they spent time cleaning up with mops and paper towels, because they had blown up their breakfast. It took some adjustments  in the way we thought about cooking, but gradually the number of hot food fatalities dwindled, and more warm food was consumed than cleaned off the oven walls.

Like it or not, things are still changing. Just keep your eyes open, read instructions and try to stay away from food recipes that involve explosions.

end

Letter from the Builder Beast

Build In Fear

This is not a question and answer column, but I have to share the following letter:

Dear Andy Bozeman,

I really liked your last column about the sliding cat rug, especially the part about the expanding tile. That has happened to me. I am a builder and since you seem so smart I am hoping you can clear up a question for me. Why don’t my customers like me after I build their house?

I always try to help them save money. Like the time a young couple had very little money but needed a house. I built a fine place that was even cheaper than they expected. I did it by spreading out the roof framing twice as far as what other people call standard. Unfortunately we had a problem with bad lumber because the roof sags all over.

Another family had plans that they wanted to reverse. For some reason the stair framer didn’t know. Now the stairs come down inside the hall bath, but at least they can get to the second floor. And think how convenient it is for the children to come downstairs to the bathroom without even going through the hall.

There’s the time I left out an expensive floor beam that the engineer said was important. I knew better. Without that beam there was enough money to wallpaper the whole house, even the closets. Sure the house shakes a little when you walk around,  but I just told the owners not to put anything heavy on the second floor.

I helped some people build a lake cabin. Instead of wasting money on concrete and steel, I saved a fortune by setting the house on tree stumps. Who could have known the trees were inferior and would leave stumps that could rot so fast. For some reason the people blame me. Why? I didn’t plant the trees.

Yet another family had plans that showed the kitchen on the right end of the house. They wanted to reverse the house so the kitchen would be on the left end. Everything went OK, except that I forgot to tell the plumber. We ended up with a toilet in the living room, but I didn’t panic. I just installed a fountain so now they have a neat little waterfall whenever they pull the flush handle.

Well I could tell you lots more about how I help my customers, but I really need an answer to my original question.

Thanks.

B.B. Frizzard, Builder

Mr. Frizzard,

Perhaps you’ve made a few slight miscalculations. Removing any framing like floor beams and roof structure in the name of saving money is ……...how can I put this gently………….Stupid!

But I guess it’s the little things that anger your customers. Shaky floors and sagging roofs and collapsing lake cabins can be a bit unnerving to the average person who has to live there.

Stairs in the bathroom? You may be on to something but only time will tell. Of course your customers will tell, too, and maybe that’s a good thing.

Finally, the real builders I know don’t do the things you do, so I don’t think you should call yourself a builder anymore. A change of career is your best answer. I don’t know what you should do, but try to find a job where lots of people can keep a close eye on you.

Dear Readers,

Halloween is the time we heighten our fear of ghosts and goblins, witches and warlocks, and things that go bump in the night. I now add to that list a creature who is to be feared every day of the year. He’s out there now, lurking in the darkness, waiting to dig his claws into your checkbook. Just try to build anything. Talk to all manner of  true professionals. He’ll be there mixed in with the crowd, hiding behind a mask of promises. If you’re not cautious, he’ll get you and you won’t even know it until it’s too late. Beware of  The Dreaded Builder Beast.

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The Rapper Girls Retaining Wall Song

The Rapper Girls

Retaining Wall Song

verse

Prop it up, baby.

Prop it in the air.

Prop it up, baby.

Prop it everywhere!

chorus

Prop it up, baby.

Prop it up, baby.

Prop it up, baby.

Prop it up, baby.

repeat verse

We all possess a character flaw that can allow us to get so carried away with what we're doing that we fail to notice when it’s time to quit. Driving a bull dozer and digging a basement can be like that. (I'll bet you were wondering how I was going to tie in the home building angle.)

A land-mover was hired to bring his digging machine to a hilly construction site to dig the foundation and full basement. The hill had a gradual slope near the top, but further to the right it became very steep. (Remember that.) The house had been designed to sit near the apex which shallowed to a small plateau. The design called for the main floor to be about two feet above plateau level with some steps to the ground. (Remember that, too.) The rest of the main floor would extend out over the hillside and be supported by the basement.

During the pre-construction phase the owner or the owner's friends or somebody or everybody decided that it was a bad idea to have any steps at all from the main floor to the ground. That could have been achieved by digging the basement a little deeper into the ground. Then, all those everybodys decided it would be easier to just slide the house down the hill enough to eliminate the steps. But everyone was concentrating so hard on the left end of the house, they never noticed what was happening on the other end.

Remember the part about the hill getting steeper on the right? While the left end was made closer to the ground by the site shift, the right end was suddenly stuck way out and way up in the air. Nobody likes to have their end stuck way out in the air...... well, maybe rapper girls, but they get paid to do that.

They didn’t know it, but the site shift had caused a situation that would require a retaining wall five feet high to hold up the basement. That extra cost alone would be a bad thing to deal with, but wait, it gets worse.

Once the site location was finalized, it was the land-movers turn to go to work. There's no explanation for what happened next. Maybe he was thinking about his sweetheart or his Sunday School lesson, or maybe he was thinking about rapper girls who need retaining walls to hold their ends up. Whatever it was, it so fully occupied his thoughts that the point where he was supposed to stop digging was quietly passed. He made a full day of his task and dug all the way down to the bottom of the hill to make a pit twenty-seven feet deep. It looked a lot like those pictures of Mt. Saint Helens with the whole mountainside missing.

You can't just fill the hole back up. The ground has to be compacted a few inches at a time by a careful and expensive process. Now, money intended for nice extras had just been sucked into the hill. The budget had to be recalculated to find enough money to finish the main structure, and nice extras were forgotten.

So what next? The builders (term loosely used) elected to build a huge retaining wall over fifteen feet high just to hold up the rapper girls basement's end. And speaking of ends, this is one.

end

Perry Scope

“Raise up......... A little more........ Yes. Yes. That’s it!........ Perfect! We do have a view of the river!!”

I dream of the day when I’ll be able to go home to my country, river side estate after a week of hard, productive work writing columns about the misery of people who built their own homes but shouldn’t have. There I’ll be a relaxed witness watching, as the sun slowly lengthens it’s rays stirring cool ripples into ribbons of fire which are, one by one, quenched finally, by twilight. Or maybe I’ll invite some guests out for the weekend. After a pleasant gourmet meal of pheasant or crown rib roast or Salmon-Limburger Patty Melts, we’ll adjourn to the Summer Terrace and watch as the twinkling stars and fire flies perform a watery waltz, their lights indistinguishable on the glassy flow in the pitch black silence of the night. Or maybe I’ll be like Mr. Scope and retire to the master suite and cry my eyes out because all I wanted was a house with a terrace that had a view of the river, and even though I’ve spent enough money to indenture five generations to servitude, I still can’t see the river because I didn’t know that I could have a terrace with a view or toilets that would flush, but not both.

For Sale: ACREAGE Overlooking the beautiful Poorschnook River. Infinite possibilities. Call for appointment.

Mr. Perry Scope answered that ad. From his first look at the property he knew he was home. All his life he had dreamed of living in such a place. The timing was perfect. His business had finally gotten to the point where he was making real money. His children were old enough that he wouldn’t have to spend every minute worrying about them drowning in the river, and his wife was actually agreeable to the move ever since she’d heard about the city’s new outer loop which would mean shorter trips to town. It was perfect!

You’ve heard the saying “He could pinch a nickel ‘til the buffalo screamed?” Well, Perry’s father could milk the bison for extra pennies. Even though he was financially secure, the intense frugality of Perry’s childhood resurfaced and became the guiding force as he planned his home.

He knew the site would require a septic tank if the house was to have indoor plumbing. He knew that the only way to find out if a septic tank would work was to hire someone to do some soil tests. He also believed that it was a good idea to avoid permit charges and impact fees, so he didn’t notify the health department or any department of his plans to build. Most people realize that building codes are for the safety of everyone. Building codes assure safe practices and results during and after construction. But, Perry was sure all that code stuff was just a gimmick to collect more revenue for the state. He decided to be like a shoe and just-do-it. Unfortunately, he would later discover that in his case this was not a good slogan.

The soil test is called a percolation test. It determines how fast and how much water can percolate or absorb into the ground. The test did not look promising. In fact, it revealed that the ground was so hard and rocky that it wouldn’t allow a standard in-ground sewage system to work at all. Even worse, it was determined that to dig out the rocky dirt and replace it with better earth could be quite expensive. The phrase “quite expensive” made Perry’s pocket buffalo begin to huff and stomp, and that was a sign to Perry that a cheaper method was needed. A mound system was recommended. True to his nature, Perry instructed the installers to select the least expensive location. Once the decisions about the sewage system’s type and location were made, that part of the building process was put away until later.

What’s a mound system? It’s a mound. When the existing dirt on a site won’t perc’ (slang for percolate), one solution is to bring in a big pile of dirt and build a mound with it. Then you stick some pipes in it and connect them to the septic tank. The septic tank is where waste water (a term for water you no longer wish to keep in the house) is broken down (they call it digested) into simple nontoxic compounds and moisture. When all these parts are in place, the greatest scientific wonder of the modern age can happen. The toilet will flush.

The flushed water swirls around, forming that neat little vortex that you watched as a child (I still like it). Then it rushes unhindered through the drain pipe where it’s carried into the septic tank to be mixed with cute little bacteria things that take out some of the water’s repulsiveness before it is dumped into the pipes that are inside the new mound of dirt which absorbs the water out of the pipes so the whole process can be repeated again.

The main problem was that Mr. Scope missed the key concept. Somehow it never occurred to him that a mound system would involve something like, .....oh, you know,......... a mound!

Plans were completed. Construction started. Changes were made. Money was spent to make the changes. The changes caused more changes to be made so more money was spent. “Wouldn’t it be neat if.....” became the battle cry and was soon joined by “Let’s go ahead and do that.” Change beget change and as for the money Perry had hoped to keep..... Well, let me put it this way. Have you ever seen a screaming, stomping, huffing buffalo nickel that could fly? Because nearly every buffalo Perry had flew straight from his bank account to build that house.

And what a house. It was glorious! Everything the Scope family wanted was there in wood floored, cherry paneled, marble stepped, tile countered, high ceilinged, Victorian bell & whistle splendor. And, let’s not forget the terrace. After all that’s the reason the house was built in the first place.

Even before it was finished, Perry could stand on the terrace and, watching the river, imagine a feast of sunsets and star rises, of firefly fantasies, of moments when the syrupy river would move faster than his life. He was living for those moments and even now could feel the attacks of office sponsored stress bouncing off his river bluff armor.

Finally the day came when it was time to install the septic tank. Perry was there for the digging of the main trench that would hold the connection pipe between the house and the septic tank. But, he was at the office when the last shovel full of dirt was piled on top of the you-know-what.

Since you do know what, it should be no surprise that Perry’s first words as he leapt from his car were “What’s that big pile of dirt doing there? It’s right in the way of my view!”

“That’s your mound.” came the response.

“I know it’s a mound, but I don’t want it there. Let’s get it dug up and move it out of here!”

“Can’t............If you move that dirt the toilets won’t flush.”

“Huh?”

Perry forced himself to calm down and listen as it was explained that he alone had made the decision to put the mound system in that particular location because it was the cheapest place, that he knew it was a mound of dirt, that it had been described as a high mound of dirt, and though it was sad that he had missed the height part which would cause his precious view to be blocked, it was now  his mound of dirt.

If he wanted it moved “he would...... “

The buffalo’s ears perked up.

“......have to.......”

The buffalo stood and raised a foot.

“.....pay more.”

Huffing! Snorting! Screaming!! Stomping!!!

That was Perry. The buffalo took it pretty well.

The buffalo was so calm because it was all alone in Perry’s pocket. It knew it was not worth enough to pay for the relocation of the mound system. It also knew that there were no friends or relatives left in Perry’s bank account. At least for a little while, Perry was down to his last bison.

Also, at least for a little while, the only member of the Scope family who can enjoy the view from the terrace is little Perry, Jr. If big Perry stands on the terrace and raises little Perry up high enough, the little guy can see the river quite clearly. Perry the father would like for the Perry the son to describe what he sees so the whole family can at least enjoy hearing about the view. The problem is that Perry the son hasn’t yet learned phrases like “stirring cool ripples into ribbons of fire”.

Mostly he just says “Ooooooooo” and “Ahhhhhhhh” for as long as his father can hold him up.

End

A New Olympic Game

I've discovered a new game. It can be enjoyed by women and girls, men and boys, all races, all religions and all ages. However, in spite of the potential popularity, I don’t think there will ever be an Olympic gold medal awarded for falling-off-the-roof.

Who hasn’t had to climb up there to retrieve a Frisbee or a ball stuck behind the chimney? I remember going on the roof to adjust the television antenna before cable TV was invented. My father would holler through an open window, “Tilt it more to the right. There, that’s perfect,” never realizing the reason it was perfectly tilted was that I was holding on to it for dear life. As soon as I let go to climb down, it un-tilted and the TV fuzzed up again. Fortunately my dad didn’t watch a lot of TV so I didn’t have to stay up there all the time.

Just last year I climbed onto my own roof to cut away some tree limbs that were scraping the eaves. I carried a pruning saw and some garden clippers. The trip up was simple. I just leaned towards the roof, taking short, shuffle steps, as my tennis shoes gripped the gritty texture of the shingles. Perching on the roof peak and cutting the tree limbs was easy. Coming back down was not. 

Right before my eyes the pitch of the roof increased to ski-slope steep. My foot-wear transformed into sliding-shoes-of-death and took off with me still in them.

I always thought I was a together-kind-of-guy who could easily handle such a minor surprise. I simply sat down; certain this would create the needed friction to stop my descent. Instead, I discovered that my bottom had the same capacity for speed as my still sliding shoes. I became a skidding, panic stricken, hot-seated, coming-apart-kind-of-guy, who was falling to his death.

I let go of the pruning saw and garden clippers. They would have to survive on their own. I lay back, flat against the roof, flailing my arms, grabbing for all manner of finger holds that weren’t there. In my mind I slid for about a year before coming to a surprise stop with my feet dangling over the edge. The saw and clippers weren’t so lucky. They fell the entire two thousand feet to the ground and perished. At least that’s what I was thinking at the time.

As impressive as my new talent was, one major component was missing from my routine: follow-through. All I did was loose a couple of trimming tools. That’s not worthy of an award by any standard.

A home builder I know was up on his house touching up the paint on a dormer window. As he began to climb down, his ladder became impatient, and decided to get him down faster. So it kicked its own feet out from under itself and fell, leaving the man momentarily suspended in mid-air. Witnesses claim the builder actually did a flip with a half-twist on the way down and still managed to stick a perfect, flat-backed landing. The builder only suffered a few bruises for his event but would have surely medaled in the World Games.

Finally, we come to the premier contender for the gold. A professional roofer, who knows all the rules about caution and safety, chose to carry a bucket of runny, roofing tar up a rickety stepped contraption that might have been a ladder in years gone by. The roofer often joked about keeping the ladder long enough for the missing steps to grow back.

His ascent to the flat roof was uneventful, but the return trip was nothing short of glorious. The first step down was also the last. The ladder-like apparatus collapsed completely. The roofer’s only attempt to grab for support required that he let go of the tar bucket. But, it wasn’t just a release. It was more like a discus throw, which lifted the bucket vaulting and spinning high into the air spreading its contents in long, viscous spirals of black, streaming stickiness.

The roofer’s fall was just a simple plummeting technique, but he was able to land with enough force to leave an imprint in the flower bed similar to the chalked outline of a murder victim. The only major consideration was whether it would be easier to clean the spiraled tar pattern off the walls, or to paint the rest of the house with the same stuff.

I don’t have any intention of supporting an Olympic-Falling-Off-The-Roof event, but I have noticed those tree limbs are back. I wonder if the broken step on my old ladder has healed, yet.