I hadn't really paid attention to how long it had been since I posted on this blog, which makes sense. Ever since we started homeschooling in earnest, not to mention the arrival of baby #3, everything other than school and survival sort of took a back seat.
Now, though, the 'baby', despite still being referred to by everyone as such, is three years old. Not really a baby. And the homeschooling is on its third year, maybe fourth if you count random stabs at preschool. The move to the 'new house' is four years past, and nothing about being a minister's wife shocks me anymore.
Today I made a little joke about wanting to resurrect the blog for the sole purpose of chronicling the recent three day crazy train of attempting to fix the parsonage sink. And then I thought, well, why not? I don't think I really have much to say on this blog anymore, but I dragged the cobwebby recesses of my mind and remembered how to log in, and here I am.
I make no promises. But here I am.
So, the plumbing. Ugh.
Well, we live in the parsonage, or manse, or clergy house. Whatever your denomination calls it, it's the house owned by the church and lent to the current minister as a 'free' place to live. I think a lot of churches have done away with their parsonages these days, and instead give their ministers a housing allowance. But our church hasn't, and so when the husband was hired I knew already where we would live. Here.
The parsonage is oldish and smallish and maybe a bit out of date, which suits us because we are also oldish, smallish and a little out of date. Also, we're not picky, which is a good trait to cultivate if you have hopes of entering the ministry. Just a little free advice from me to you. But being oldish means everything is a little bit run down and I expect stuff to need a lot of duct tape and prayers.
The day before yesterday the kitchen sink stopped draining. I did my level best with Drain-o and when that didn't work I decided I was going to plunge it. With the seven year old holding the stopper in one side of the sink, I plunged with all my might. When that didn't work I tried the other side, and then pulled over a chair and got up on the counter to use my full weight. Well, certainly a lot of gunk came up, I'll spare you the details, and all of it had to be scooped into a bucket and dumped into the toilet. For over two hours we worked on it, and we simply couldn't get the sink to drain.
I looked under the sink and consulted Dr. Google but the two of us, usually such an efficient team, couldn't understand the ancient pipes in my cabinet. At this point I called it and told my husband he should let the church maintenance guy know that his services were needed at the manse.
Let me take a minute here to pause and sing the praises of Church Maintenance Guys, otherwise known as trustees, wherever they may be. These fine men (there may very well be Church Maintenance Gals out there, but it's been my experience that the position is almost always something only a middle aged man with paint splattered pants and a squint would want to fill) come out in all weather, at all times, usually with a trunk full of tools so old the children wonder in awe if Noah himself used them. They climb under your house, up your chimney and through your azaleas. They pet your cat when you aren't looking, make suggestions as to the best placement of next year's bulbs, have the garbage and recycling ordinances memorized, and unclog your toilet for you. They have an odd sense of humour and will gently mock you once they know you well enough. What wonderful people they are, even the crabby ones, to volunteer for such a job.
Our trustee showed up with a chemical in a bottle that he thought might work. We poured it in, waited the required time, and tried the sink. It didn't drain. Not to worry, said the trustee, and produced another bottle, this one very strong and certain to work. Again we waited ( in between applications we drained the sink via the pipe underneath) and again we flushed the sink and again it did not drain. Well, now this was exciting, thought the children as they clustered around their bedraggled mother who had been without a sink since just after breakfast. The pipe underneath was opened again, and we fed our three foot drain snake into the wall. Cleaned out, we resealed the pipe and tried the sink. It didn't drain. Not daunted yet, the trustee went home and got his own five foot snake, came back, opened the pipe, fed in the five foot snake, cleaned it out, resealed the pipe and tried the sink. It didn't drain.
Under the house he crawled, and went to look at the plumbing. We conferred and decided that he would return the next day and cut out a section of pipe from the crawlspace and clean from there. The next day he did just that, using the five foot snake in both directions. We resealed the pipe and tried the sink. It didn't drain. Now well over 24 hours without a sink, he agreed to open the pipe underneath for me to place a bowl so I could clean the sink and counter and possibly do dishes. And he said he'd come back the next day again.
He did, and somehow he'd convinced his brother to come with him to help, and they cut out all the pipe and replaced it. They resealed it, we ran the sink, and it drained. Three days to fix a sink.
I'm so grateful for running water and modern plumbing.
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