Roots. Damn roots.

If you read yesterday’s post, you learned about both my propensity to swear and our plumbing problems.  Neither issue is fully resolved, but there is hope for the plumbing situation.

Our day started early and with a plan. There would be no time to truly enjoy that (imaginary) “extra hour of sleep” around here. In addition to two dogs and two cats that have zero awareness of “fall back”, I awoke at 4:15 AM thanks to a very hard-wired internal alarm. I wanted to take advantage of the quiet morning before we needed to really start moving. Sadly, both pups assumed it was an hour later, and their “breakfast reminders” came at me fast and furious. Nonetheless, I had a little time to be still and look at the week ahead before I had to focus on the day ahead.

My husband joined me around 6:15. The plan was to drop our younger daughter off at work before a quick Lowe’s run, a strong cup of coffee at Starbucks, and then to start digging soon thereafter. The morning unfolded as planned and I think I made it to just after 11 before a single swear word crossed my lips. That is when he finally reached the pipe and there was no obvious sign of the damage nor cause for the backup. He was, however able to pull the stuck garden hose out of the mainline, and we then estimated on both the direction and distance to the (suspected) broken pipe based on the kink in the hose. We had a ways to go. He dug some more. Ah, sh*t, I said under my breath before returning to the house.

Another hour or two passed. More pipe exposed. Still no obvious signs of what could be causing the backup nor sign of any leaking water indicating we were tracking a broken pipe. He speculated he was digging in the wrong direction. I knew it would be dark in 3 or 4 hours and the prospect of going another day without flushing toilets was growing. A few more swear words slipped from my mouth.

After more than 3 decades together, I think he’s fluent in the refined dialect of my select words. He looked up at me from the depth of his five-and-a-half foot hole and simply said, “Right now, I’m less concerned about finding the break and more concerned about getting us flushing toilets today.”

Hallelujah!

We would need to rent a commercial sewer line snake and I didn’t blink twice. Within 20 minutes, we were on our way to pick it up. On the entirety of the drive there and back home, I quietly said prayers for this solution to work. I refrained from lacing my prayers with any profanity.  I think that helped.

Another 30 minutes or so, and he had the snake run almost the full 100 feet length, the toilets flushing beautifully, and the answer to our problem.

Roots.

Damn roots.

Our nemesis is back. From exactly where we don’t yet know. But, they are in there. The jaw end of the snake pulled up some up lacy roots with it as we (OK, he because we all know I didn’t do it) slow cranked the full length of the 1-inch twisting steel cable back out of the sewer pipe.

Still, we had an answer and flushing toilets. That was enough for one day. The giant gaping hole would have to wait to be back-filled until tomorrow because we also had only 45 minutes before the rental store closed for the day and over-night charges would apply.

Together, he and I lifted that monster back into the truck and high-tailed it back across our little town. We were there in less than 10 minutes and on our way home in under 20.

Dammit! Roots! Again!

Now it was time to play detective. Roots, from where? What is the next step? Does it and can it wait until spring now that the line is cleared? What do those little roots really represent?

The last one stumped him. He can follow my swearing, but I usually lose him when my writer’s brain emerges. I can’t blame him; it’s messy in there. But, I pressed on.

He knew what I wrote here yesterday. I had read it to him. He laughed and certainly understood the metaphor. Today, I pondered the role of roots in that metaphor. If our plumbing trouble and the sh*t that came up hadn’t been caused by a shift in the pipes but was, instead, caused by roots…

I was digging and he was following and better yet, he was getting it.

The roots we brought up were small, not the monstrous knotting kind. They’re the kind that can go without notice until they cause repeated and eventually big damage. I talked it out. He listened. These roots are like those connections–friends, family, co-workers–that we have in our lives that niggle and burrow into our vulnerable spaces, doing small, invisible, and very gradual damage. These are the ones that are difficult to cut out. Sometimes, we keep them, like the plants in our yard, because they add something to our lives or perhaps because their role is so large, they are not easily removed. Either way, like the plants in our yards, all relationships need tending and some need hard pruning.

I concluded, the small roots are almost more damaging than a single monstrous root because it is often harder to isolate and remove the damage caused by multiple invasive, suffocating strands than it is a single choking rope. It is in staying ahead of the small invasive ones, the ones that seem harmless, that the real challenge lies. Prune hard and prune often, I thought. Annual clean-outs may be necessary.

We made a quick pit stop on the way home and pulled into the liquor store parking lot. He’s earned tonight’s glass of wine. His body will most undoubtedly be feeling the day’s work in a few hours. As we browsed the selections, we both saw it. A firey red label sporting a man’s head with a plunger on it. It was almost prophetic, the day’s events mocking us. Those roots inviting us to laugh along, reminding us not to take life quite so seriously. Those damn roots inviting us to share a moment of connection and in celebration of flushing toilets.

We pulled into the driveway. I glanced at the piles of dirt crushing my landscaping. Roots! Damn you and your invasiveness, I thought quietly, but I thank you for the lessons.

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