The Wisdom of the Arroyo

It isn't the warm weather that is the problem. It is wanting, but not being able, to take a nip of the only sane and civilized remedy to hot weather that wears one down.

Since we live out toward the edge of known civilization, in a hilly area that probably made the water district worry about pressure at the top of the hills, there is no city sewer system. Twenty or thirty years ago, when these houses were built--and for that matter, still today--houses have septic tanks. Everything goes out to the septic tank, where the roots from every plant within sight wait for raw nourishment.

Yesterday, our septic system refused to accept donations. We tried those plastic bottles of battery acid, or whatever it is that Home Depot and Ace Hardware sell, but the system behaved just like the Republicans in the House of Representatives and refused to do anything except mutter and belch.

Today the plumber came. "Where is the septic tank?", he asked. "I don't know," I said. "I do know that this little aluminum tag has been lying in the yard, right here." We finally found the wire the tag was once attached to.

"Where is the clean-out trap?", he asked. "I don't know," I said. We found it in the vegetable garden. He hauled one of those colonoscopy machines through the garden to the trap, and reamed out the line. I flinched. I know the feeling.

When he left, I found the beer I had been pretending did not exist, and opened it. I had not dared to open it before I could be confident of its trajectory.

It is not the heat, nor is it the humidity that matters. It is the wisdom of the arroyo. It seldom rains, but when it does, it is necessary for there to be a place for the water to go.

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