Somewhere during the course of the last week, life rolled right over my little existence in the most banal of ways. The weather used the long weekend to shift from late winter to early summer. More sunlight, warmer temperatures, showers falling now and then. All of which jump-started the local vegetation. Trees. Lawns. DANDELIONS.
Yes -- once again, dandelions. Normally a pain-in-the-ass weed. And this year? Weeds on steroids, hyperaggressive vegetable matter trying to take over my little hilltop fiefdom, a situation that's had me out pushing the mower around every day for far, far too many hours. Tuesday brought genuine summer weather -- our friends in the weed kingdom responded with an awesome display of the biological imperative, harmless yellow blossoms transforming into nasty, phallic white dandelion sperm clusters, pumping their, er, product into the warm air.
Springtime arrived in Madrid many weeks ago, milkweed fluff floated through the air in a similar display. In the city, though, it's just pretty, doesn't affect life much apart from putting on a dreamlike show of drifting between the buildings on the breeze, little bits of fluff glowing in the sunlight. Here it means the next generation of sex-crazed vegetation is taking root and preparing to procreate.
So there's that. Another unfortunate aspect of being back here: there's a house to take care of. There's work to be done, responsibilities to be assumed, one of which is maintaining the systems that keep the house liveable. All kinds of systems, including one or two so unsavory that they're generally kept carefully out of view. Buried, usually -- in the case of this house buried out just beyond the point where the lawn transforms into meadow and the land angles gently downhill, beginning its long descent toward the valley. It's a system that has received no attention since I bought this
I've had a general idea where the tank is buried -- when I bought the place, the realtor pointed our a long patch of bright, verdant greenery out in front of the front door, beyond the edge of the lawn. That, he told me, is where the leachfield for the septic tank is. I mentioned that when I made the appointment to get the tank, er, sucked clean next week. The guy I spoke with pulled the previous owners' file, told me exactly where the tank should be, told me that they were going to need to have access to the tank's lid (currently buried beneath a foot of weeds, grass, shrubbery, roots, rocks, earthworms). Seemed like work I should do, me being the owner of the premises. I should know where the septic tank is, I should know how to find it and access its glory hole. Which got me out there that afternoon, armed with shovels and picks, dressed to withstand the blackflies (long-pants, long-sleeved shirt, collar turned up, all exposed skin slathered with bug goo). Turned out it was hot in the direct sunlight, the humidity high. No breeze, blackflies doing their damndest to find an unprotected square centimeter of skin. Bigass rocks strewn liberally among the root-infested soil. All of which added up to an hour of sheer bliss.
I'm not here to suffer. I did far too much of that in earlier years and now tend not to tolerate situations or people that make my normally charmed life begin to feel miserable. And if I find myself in a situation where I'm suffering, I tend not to suffer quietly.
Me, digging down through a thickly matted layer of plants that did not want to come away without a fight. Digging, probing, digging, probing, trying to find the tank, then the lid. Me, coming up against big rock after big rock after big rock, losing my footing, slipping around. Me, swatting at blackflies, covered with sweat, sun beating down. Me, swearing loudly, continuously, sincerely. I am so grateful none of all that was immortalized on video.
And I must confess: I'm glad I did the work. I'm glad I know where the tank is, what needs to be done to access it. The cleaning crew will show up next Wednesday, 7:30 a.m., an hour when no one should have to work, much less have to clean out septic tanks. They'll do the work, take my money, head off to greener pastures. And when I cover the tank back up, I'll make a mound of all the goddamn rocks right over the tank's entryway so that the next time it has to be accessed, it'll be clear and obvious where the point of entry is, saving all sorts of time and suffering. To minimize future suffering.
Portal to wholesome goodness:
Madrid, te echo de menos.
rws 9:34 PM [+]
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