It wasn't until late afternoon that the horrible part of the day began.
To set the stage: the rain had been picking up all day. It was now falling quite steadily.
In the morning I had gone up to work in a space where I have consistent internet. It was unheated and cold inside; so cold that an unopened bottle of sparkling water had partially frozen. I found it hard to get warm after being chilled to the bone, so I spent a few hours afterwards huddled over a space heater.
When I wasn't quite as chilled, and the water was somewhat thawed in the RV (hooray!), I did dishes for an hour. Nice hot water, but my feet were icy by the time I was done. To warm up, I huddled under down comforters and fed the baby. I drank hot tea, but it didn’t warm me up all the way. I dozed off. When I woke up, I figured I should go start the steaks for dinner.
Before I left, I looked at some pictures the boys had drawn. And I heard a very odd noise, like gushing water.
In the utility room, I found the culprit: the pipe that Phil had carefully dug and placed yesterday, but not backfilled entirely lest he be unable to actually hook it up at the right time, was gushing orange, muddy water into the utility room. On the other side of the wall, the rain-drenched land had absorbed all it could, and now was sheeting down into the lowest point, the not-backfilled hole, now filled with water and seeking a lower place: our utility room.
I called for Phil and quickly found a bucket. Incredibly, the bulk of this terrific run-off had poured directly into a 6” square cardboard box. Once the bucket was in place, I poured the box out into the bucket. The box had held at least a quart, and I caught it before it disintegrated. Small mercy. A quart of muddy water is quite a bit.
Phil was home, recently returned from an errand. He turned the pipe up and the water stopped flowing. Small mercy.
With a damp floor and assorted plumbing and electrical bits littering the space, I left to go cook steaks.
This attempt was an utter failure. Not only was I wet and cold, but the steaks refused to cut no matter what knife I used. They were practically raw, despite following Phil’s instructions (perfectly suited for a different cut of steak). And I am predisposed to hate steaks because trying to get rid of the silverskin or gristle takes so much time: I think, for the most part, I’d rather eat some ground beef and call it good.
As I was trying the fifth knife, Phil came in to check on me. I was at the stage of the downward spiral where nothing seems like it will go right again: ruined steaks, more steaks in the freezer and those will (of necessity) also be ruined, cold, rainy, I was the one who suggested we dig the trench that poured out muddy water, grumpy boys, no internet....
Phil took the steaks to try to figure out what to do with them. If I was ready to toss them to the dogs, they could hardly get worse. I would carry the bread and toppings. He offered to wait for me, but I have a little pride issue about my ability to walk around the farm in the dark (never had any issues before), so I told him to go along.
In this case, "pride goes before a fall"—literally. I was carrying a cutting board and a heavy paper bag of groceries. The terrain was uneven and settling because the newly dug trench bisects the path I took. I stepped, and my foot sank. I stepped again and found myself down, fallen on elbow and muddy to waist.
Now sobbing loudly, I gathered most of the groceries into the torn, damp paper bag. A loaf of bread dropped out as I made my way to the boys, squelching on a mud clod in my shoe at every step.
I had finally bought a new farm jacket some weeks back, after the down NorthFace jacket I had loved since age 19 finally completely wore out last year (not only was it filthy, not only was it torn in multiple places from bits of wire on fences, not only was the down torn out around both sleeves, but the zipper was broken so that both sides stuck together in one place, requiring me to step into the jacket if I wanted even a bit of warmth).
My new farm jacket is rated to 10 degrees. It is navy blue firehose canvas, comes down over m hips, and is warm and beautiful.
And now it was ruined, at least for trips to town. Orange patch on elbow, orange on hem. (Truly, the amount of orange was less than I expected, considering how far I fell.)
I rescued the bread: only a small part of the bottom was muddy: how it landed on the ground did little damage.
But I should have been thankful. I was wearing nice jeans, but had just put on quilted overpants to keep more warm. Those were muddy, but not the jeans. And those quilted overpants are made to be muddy.
I found out later that I had stepped right into one end of the trench; basically, I stepped into a hole. I didn’t have to fall far to hit my elbow. No wonder I felt like I was lolling on the ground. I sort of was, except the ground was two feet down at that spot.
Instead, I was in tears and full of complaints. Why must everything be so hard? I emailed my sister and mother that I felt like a character in a Hemingway book.
Why did the chicken cross the road?
Hemingway: To die. In the rain.
Amy: To get to the dropped bread. In the rain. Left in the wake of a ruined new jacket.
While I was bemoaning my lot via email, Phil was being an adult. He cooked the steaks under the broiler which magically made them both edible and cuttable. He mopped up the utility closet and dealt with the leak that was developing. He put the cheese and meat and other assorted groceries away. He cut off the bread bits that were muddy.
When I was done venting, I ate some steak (pre-cut, mind you) and felt human again.
But the leak in the utility closet then intensified. And that was the battle we fought all evening and through the night. The water dripped and streamed a bit from chin-height. We had to somehow keep it from completely ruining the floor, the back of drywall, the framing, the paint. I used one method, and it started to flow into the crawlspace, which is now covered with black plastic (meaning, the muddy water would not just sink down through the gravel and away).
Phil went out to fill the hole back in as best he could. He stepped down and almost lost a boot, but had the good sense to keep foot in boot and dig his foot out. He covered the exterior pipe with a bucket, and it helped. A little.
He tried this a second time, later, but was then out of ideas and options. I mopped up every half hour, and then covered the back of the drywall with plastic wrap. That at least stopped the spatters from real damage.
But the better idea was to put a towel over the leak, and stick a pipe on the bottom of a towel, to direct the water right into the bucket.
We dumped the water, always two or three gallons worth, at 10:30pm, 12:30am, 1:15am, 2am, 5am. It was not a fun night.
I was grieving over my bad idea. Phil was grieving because “I knew in my gut it was a bad idea, but I couldn’t figure out why in my mind, and so I did it anyway.” I was sad for being so anxious to be done that I put pressure on; Phil was sad for giving in so readily.
It felt like we were Adam and Eve. “’Just dig the trench,’ said she, to her husband, who was with her.”
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