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I am on the move! Granted, the movement is in fits and starts, not without some disappointments, but it is movement, nonetheless.

Two months ago I forged ahead and had a septic tank installed on my new piece of property (See my recent, prior posts for background.) The handsome man above and his able assistant arrived with all the requisite monster equipment and got to work, excavating a deep hole, digging a huge expanse of ground in four long furrows, and, later, had delivered, by another man, a septic tank large enough to be a bomb shelter.

These “modern” amenities (I really would have preferred a composting toilet—skip the septic tank—and let it go at that. But that would not have been an option in this situation.) cost a pretty penny for this financially challenged pixie on a mini-shoestring.

“I’ll take care of you,” Mr. S. assured me. “You’ll be happy with this.” He and his assistant dug this huge hole, measured it and leveled the bottom.

Then the right-angled, colossal concrete sculpture was delivered…

and was snuggly fit into its resting place to do its “dirty” work for years and years to come.

Last of all, Mr. S. and his sidekick lay these long plastic tubes in the ground and covered them up with dirt. This part of the system, for the septic-tank uninitiated (I’m happy to be your guide.) is the drain field—the part of the system that “catches” the overflow of fluid.

I was required to install a large tank because I hope at some point to have another building on the property. By my reckoning—just with the looks of that tank—I’d have to have forty houseguests, all taking showers, flushing the toilet, and brushing their teeth at the same time for that septic tank to be so challenged. But, whatever. Red tape is red tape. Regulations are regulations.

And, money is just money, right? For the privilege of having this big box in the ground and hundreds of feet of giant Lego pieces entombed under my trees, I wrote Mr. S. a check for $3,556. (“Ouch,” said the mini-shoestring.)

Mr. S., who, as you recall, assured me I would be happy, said, as we were wrapping up the day: “We get our business ‘cause we got a good reputation. We don’t do anything to damage that.” He thanked me sincerely as I wrote out the check. He assured me that he’d have the inspection done and cover everything up by the next day.

A few days later I went out to the property only to see a huge mound of dirt still standing next to the septic tank. (See the picture above, where the septic tank is in the ground and the mound is to the left.) Days went by. I called. “Oh, Miss Ellen, no problem. I leave it like that to let the tank settle after some rain comes in. Then, I come back and smooth it all over.”

I explained to him that I was finally going on to the next step and would be having electricity and water hooked up and I needed for him to finish his work so his earth-moving equipment wouldn’t break any water lines.

“I’ll be out of town next week, but after that I’ll come over and take care of it,” he said.

Right. Two more phone calls. No answer. This past Tuesday he answered his phone. “I’ll be there tomorrow or Thursday,” he assured me.

Today is Sunday. I arrived at the Pixie Plantation this morning to meet up with a contractor—we shall call him Kermit, for the time being—who  offered to work for me this weekend. After he’d done some work yesterday and was getting ready to leave, he said, “So, you gonna ‘play’ here tomorrow, too?” He smiled.

“Well, if you’re up to working again, I’ll be here,” I said. “What time do you think you’ll get here?”

“Oh, my honey gets up for work at 6:30 and I’ll be up and feeding the horses by 8:00…”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be here.”

I arrived at 10:30 this morning (after an hour’s drive from my current house). No Kermit.

And the big mound of red clay was still there, shining in the sun.

Disappointment was the word for today. But this madwoman-turned-pixie will persevere. Undaunted. Where there is a mound, I may choose to see an opportunity for exercise. I’ve shoveled stuff before. And, where Kermit is concerned, well, there are other frogs with hammers and saws out there for me to kiss.

Movement, as I said, comes in fits and starts. Tomorrow Kevin, my “well guy” (or his guys) will show up with my electrician, Randy. These are guys I can count on, real princes. I’ll keep you posted.

 

Please also see my writing at http://wrinkledintime.wordpress.com, http://dancetheriver.wordpress.com, and http://www.elderwomenmusings.com.

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