In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “An Extreme Tale.”
Summertime, 2013, we moved into our century home proudly gracing two and a half acres. It oozed with character and charm, and we were ready to give it the TLC it needed. We were a picture of contentment sipping lemonade in the shade provided by the wispy branches circling the venerable trunk of the enormous weeping willow.
“Ah, this the life.”
A week later, the dug well, within close proximity of the verdant tree ran dry. A drilled well was what we needed, we were advised. Over thirty thousand dollars later, our water source surged up from one hundred and eighty feet in the ground.
Well, well, well, the worst was yet to come. There’s no way one can possibly know the goings on in aquifers in the bowels of the earth. Bowels being the operative word. After providing us with reasonably clear water for a month, the well suddenly spewed gray, muddy diarrhea up through the faucets, clogging the toilets. We had to haul the muddy clothes caught in the wash cycle to the Laundromat to our nearest town twenty minutes away. We could forget about showering.
Then Murphy’s Law (the one that if anything can go wrong it will) lurking in the wings pounced on us. Our computer printer quit permanently. We were smote by an infestation of beastly cluster flies. Amazon was supposed to deliver my Prince Charming doll gift to my granddaughter who turned four. She (and Cinderella) was waiting with anticipation, her father with camera at the ready for her big surprise. She opened the package. No Prince Charming! Instead she got Prince Philip, one of the Kingdom’s lesser princes! Talk about a fizzle!
And there was nothing charming about our old house with us having to haul in pails of rain water from the outside barrels to flush the toilets. What WAS I thinking?