The Grass Is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank Read Online Free PDF Page A

driveway is on our neighbor's property, the grapes on the kitchen wallpaper are growing upside down, and I have a sign on our front door reading, 'out of order! PLEASE USE HOUSE NEXT DOOR.' ”
    “I think our best bet is to try and pin down the contractors,” said my husband. “I'll see what I can do.”
    Two months later, we had tracked down our plumber. He had defected to a small country behind the iron curtain taking with him the last of the 1/15-inch pipe used in our bathrooms. Delivery was guaranteed in three years.
    Our electrician was facing charges of involuntary arson of a large office building where political corruption was suspect. (He contended his bid was the lowest offered—a case of Coors.)
    Our building foreman had returned to high school. He explained it had only been a temporary summer job to earn enough for a bicycle.
    Our furnace man was living under an assumed name in Yuma, Arizona.
    Our painter was drying out in a Sanitarium in upper New York State.
    And our concrete man was studying contract law at the University of Cincinnati.
    “I don't want to panic you,” said my husband, “but I think we're stuck with our own repairs.”
    “Why should I panic? Just because when our water pipes sweat you prescribed an anti-perspirant?”
    “Oh c'mon.”
    “Just because you were too embarrassed to ask for a male or a female plug at the hardware store and I had to write you a note.”
    “You made your point.”
    “Just because we have the only toilet in the block reseated with Play Doh...”
    “Look,” he said, “did you marry for love or did you marry to have your toilet fixed?”
    When I didn't answer he said, “I'll get my toolbox and we can talk about what has to be done.”
    He set down a small fishing tackle box that had been originally inscribed “first aid.” This had been crossed out and “tols” was misspelled across the top in pencil.
    Inside was a cork, five feet of pink, plastic clothesline, a small hammer, a flashlight with no batteries, a curler, a poker chip, and a book of rain-soaked matches.
    “This is it?”
    “This is it. What do you need first?” he asked.
    “Storm windows for the entire house.”
    “Are vou cr.azy?” he gasped. “I'll need a miter box.”
    I thought we sprayed for them."
    Couldn't I start with something easy—like a revolving door?"
    “As a matter of fact, you could make one of those little doors lor ihc dog that saves you from letting them in and onl nil the time. You know, the one with the little hinges lluil H.ip in and out?”
    “Right,” he said. “No problem. You just saw a little hole in the door, attach the hinges, and you're in business.”
    When I left him he was standing the dog against the wall with a tape measure and saying, “Let's see how much you've grown today.”
    A f'ew hours later I felt a draft in the bedrooms and went to check. You could have slung a herd of buffalo through the little hole in the door.
    “Don't worry,” he cautioned, “the door on it will eliminate the wind whistling through.”
    “Now what are you doing?” I asked, as he dropped to his hands and knees.
    “Showing the dog how to go through it. Dogs have to be taught, you know. But they're great little mimics.” He twisted and groaned until his body was halfway through the door.
    “What's wrong?” I asked.
    “I'm stuck.”
    “Which end do you want me to save?”
    “Will you knock it off with the jokes? Here I am with half of my body on the front porch and the other half in the hallway and ...”
    “Would you be terribly upset if I opened the door right now?”
    “Why?”
    “The dog has to go out.”
    “Well, hurry up. When I'm finished here, I want to start on the storm windows.”
    The search for Edward C. Phlcgg continued for nine years. Someone thought they spotted the back of his head at an Arthur Fiedler concert. Another neighbor heard he was involved in selling beachfront property in Fargo, North Dakota.
    Whatever, we never saw the builder