There is something to be said about living out in the sticks. For one thing, it's mostly quiet. For another, the night skies are dark and the stars are plentiful. Sure, it's a bind to drive the better part of an hour to have coffee or lunch with a friend, but I get most of my food from the farmers' market where I work with a local farmer, and most of my other shopping gets done at a food co-op on that one day I'm in town.
The biggest issue is that when things go wrong, they go wrong horribly and at the worst time. I'm pretty certain there's a set of rural corollaries to Murphy's Law, and further to that it gets awkward to get things fixed. When the storms blow through there's the chance that wind brings the power lines down, and if some ninnyhammer city driver crashes into a telegraph pole whilst checking his Facebook feed there's a good chance that phone and internet will be down for most of a day.
But we put up with our shoddy internet service and other inconveniences because we like it out here. My nearest neighbour is fairly close by (around three hundred yards), but if ever he sees anything unusual, like a van parked in the driveway for half an hour, he's down toting a shotgun to make certain everything is okay, and that no-one is robbing the place.
Sure, during Fire Season there's a chance we'll have to be on fire watch for a few night each year, and suffer with the smoke and risk of evacuation. But on the whole I prefer the country problems to the city ones. More than two traffic lights begins to feel urban and houses plonked down within a stone's throw starts to look crowdy and scary.
So it's idyllic. mostly. Until you wake up one morning and there's no water in the tap. Okay, the power's on, I have emergency drinking water and I make a moka pot of coffee to take out while I check the breakers at the house and trek out to the domestic pumphouse. Local breakers, check. Electrical contacts, check. Pressure gauge, ah dodgy enough that I can't read the dial. Breakout box, check. Valves, check I think. Power off, clean contacts anyway, reset breakout box, inspect condenser. Power on, but pump does not cycle. Bleed valve? Not on this tank. Ah well. Call farmer neighbour, he comes and pokes at everything, scratches head. "You need to call a guy".
So I call Jim Cooper up the road. He's out and doesn't have a mobile phone, so he calls me back two hours later. Sure, he knows a guy. "Andy Prescott. He fixed my setup a couple years ago after that big storm. You know, the one that brought the old oak down at the Jensen Ranch. His sister married Ramone, used to have that little farm next to the Ramirez' place. Nice fella. You were in the valley then? It was the year before that big fire that came down from the canyon. I remember, we were all sat down in the bar and you said you were just going to load up and go to market anyway, hang the evacuation order",and he laughs. Finally gives me the guy's number. And I call Andy.
I swear this is how it went. There may have been more waffling and meandering, but this much I remember.
"Is that Andy Prescott?" I ask in a very clear voice.
"Well it might be, depending on who's asking."
"Well I need a guy who can see why my pump isn't cycling. I'm on County Road X looking after a friend's place and the domestic water is out."
"Is that Mike? That you, Mike?"
"No, it's Kevin, I'm looking after the Tancred place outside Brooks."
"What, near the Grill?"
"No, the Tancred place, south of there. Near the tribe."
"Ah, my sister's boy works there, does work for the Casino's Fire Department. What's your water like? I think her boy's getting into the wine business too."
And there's silence. How do I fill this?
"Well the domestic pump is out, and Jim Cooper gave me your number."
"Jim Cooper, up on Road X? He doin' okay? How's his wife doing? How deep is the well?"
I tell him that his wife seems fine. She certainly drives like she has no fear. As for the depth, I don't know the exact answer but I tell him it's domestic, runs a pipe an inch and a half and the pressure tank is so big. Also, can he come and look at it?
"If I didn't have two women and a horse I could answer that, but I've three trucks and one might work."
I swear this is what he said. I have no idea what it means, so I press on.
"I don't know enough about this pump, and Jim doesn't know much more."
"Where you at?"
"The Tancred place, down from the tribe. Right down the road from Francis Farms. And the pump's not working."
"What size is the pump?"
I rack my brains. Fuck if I know, but the pump house is a short walk away so I start to walk over to it. On the way I remember that I'd taken pictures. I quickly open the gallery, praying that he doesn't mistake my silence for absence. Sure enough, the photo of the breakout box says "1 HP" and the tank has a label with the capacity. I tell him this, along with the size of the pipe.
There's a silence.
"You up from Jim's place? Old house there? Round the *incomprehensible*?"
"Down from Jim's"
"Ah, before you get to the jig?"
I decide to just agree, so yes, before the jig.
"I've a leak to fix in Bugger's Corner in the morning, I could come out and look. What's the pipe size?"
"About an inch, inch and a half."
"That old barn still up? One with the overhang?" Ye gods, this is worse than pulling teeth. But before I can answer, he asks, "So it just domestic? What's the breakout capacitor look like?"
It just so happens that I know what big power capacitors look like, and I describe it, and the relay next to it. Not to mention the whiffling sprocket on the interocitor, because that's bound to be the next thing he asks about.
"You remind me of Mike Harper, the way you talk, he used to run cattle up close by the creek. How deep is the well?"
This isn't helping. By the time we've got an appointment it will be suppertime and he'll have to feed his chickens or somesuch. I tell him I don't know, but that it's shallower than the ag well four hundred feet to the east, and downhill. He makes encouraging noises.
"Pressure", just the one word, and I know the answer to this one.
"Pressure gauge is crusty inside, I can't see a darned thing."
"Okay", he says, "Where are you, I can be there tomorrow. John, you remind me of him, he used to have a big ol' tow truck back when those two Mexican guys had that shade tree shop out by the vineyard as it is now."
Is he trying to distract me? Is he seeing if I can keep pace? Is this a test to see if the English city slicker is worth dealing with?
"County Road X. Off the highway. Up from the Rancheria. Before you get to Jim's place, near that jig. On the right after Morrison's ranch. West of the creek." Jesus, I hope this is enough. I already know him well enough that he's not after a street address to pump into Goofle Maps. But he does ask for the house number. I tell him that. And yes, it's the big green one. He knows it, used to be they grew walnuts, but cut the orchard down. Yes, yes they did. The pump house is red, I tell him.
"Near the threeway?"
"Threeway?" I'm out of my depth now. And also pretty sure that he'd nailed the location more accurately than a cruise missile guidance system. And he does have the house number.
"Near the jig, road goes right, drive goes up, track goes left."
It turns out to be a good description of the location, and I breathe a sigh of relief. He tells me he will see me tomorrow.
"God willing and the creek don't rise. Xavier used to run a sheep farm up round the corner. Next to that Scots guy with the pigs and the bee business." I sense him about to give me another history lesson.
"Yes", I tell him and add, "Alex, he moved up to the coast couple years back. Still delivers meat to the Country Barbeque. His daughter must be starting school soon." I hold my breath. I think this was a test, and it turns out I made the grade. "Let me make sure I got your number", and he dutifully writes it down, repeats it and thanks me "Your name's Kevin, you said?" and I answer him, yes.
The phone goes dead. I look at it, astonished that a simple call could take so long. But he is only a country mile away, round the bend and up the rise a spell. He knows exactly where he is, and where I am.
I hope his truck, or his horse, or his two women don't let him down. It will be nice to get a hot shower again.
Addendum: the pump did not, in fact, get fixed. I did not get my hot shower. I shall haul my stinky body to bed.
Addendum the Second: after four more days of trying, I finally got a man out and it was found that the pump needed replacement. A day later it was all done, and I have water in the house again. A hot shower feels like luxury, suddenly.
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