We shut our house trap last week.
It had succumbed to age, requiring a plumber’s help to unclog twice in four days. It had to go.
Turns out the toilet draining itself dry without warning wasn’t a parlor trick after all. Nor did we need the original house trap any longer since all our sinks have their own traps now.
It was a dinosaur, its once-shiny, U-shaped glory marred by 69 years of corrosion.
Thankfully we were able to get someone in quickly to remedy the problem. (The promise of payment will do that.)
The fix was neither quick nor quiet.
Two nice men spent the day here — one in our crawl space sawing and banging and clanging, the other digging a three-foot trench in the flower bed next to our front door.
It made for a teeth-rattling day of work, even huddled as I was up in Catherine’s bedroom behind a closed door.
Late in the day, after the trap has been excised and new straight piping installed in its place, a third man arrived with a high-pressure hose to test the setup and our pipes out to the street. We passed. No blockages to be found.
As people will do, the men gabbed a bit — Basil among them by now, lest he miss even a second of what they were up do.
I couldn’t help but listen as snippets of conversation filtered up through the open window.
What do men talk about, you wonder?
It was a regular hen party minus the laundry list of physical ailments most women compare notes about.
Various topics of discussion:
- Beer and how nice a cold one would be.
- The challenging job they did recently in a tight space to find the diamond ring some woman accidentally lost down the drain.
- What is was like to serve in the Navy.
- Visiting Greece.
- How unwelcoming Russians were when one fella visited there.
- Coffee — to drink or not to drink? Iced or hot? Insomnia-inducing or not?
It was all I could do not to call down and ask if they wanted coffee cake.
However, I managed to keep my trap shut, and before long, the plumbing trucks were gone.
Quiet returned and we again felt flush, but not in the classic sense.