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icarusThis one fell through the cracks a while back, while dad was working Port32.com. I owe him an apology and you folks some entertainment.
Sorry, Sanskrit has me a bit worried and busy. This, my friends, is the hardest class I've ever taken, beating Japanese, World Religions, and Linguistics hands down.
Here. Have a little vacation at my dad's north country cottage.
Cottage Country Labour.
Jim McTaggart has departed the lake. We miss him all ready. Very selfishly, because the troubles have begun, an eerie hex has fallen on the mechanical systems he installed.
The water system. Remember how pleased I was with myself last summer for having replaced the pressure tank? I may be rich with pleasure opportunities this year.
Two weeks ago we made a brief day trip to move the boat from storage to the marina. When we arrived there was no marina, or rather it was still on shore. The windy cold weather has retarded everyone's progress this year.
We also found that the pump was making a rough noise and no water was coming through. Foot valve's stuck, thought I, I'll have Ray Harvey give it a look. Ray's the new cottage labour, another retired construction guy who gets no summer because he let it be known he was available to fix things for helpless and/or lazy cottagers. At least he understands composting toilets.
The next weekend, we were up there in earnest to get things open, cold rainy wind-spitting nasty weather or not. This time the pump didn't even run. We can brave the cruel North if there's a hot shower to jump into, but this was too much to ask.
Home again, call Ray again: "No problem, I'll just go over there and fire her up 'n see what's wrong!"
"No, Ray, you won't fire her up, because the pump doesn't run at all. I think it's burned out."
For the next couple of days I calculated replacement costs for the whole system. Heck, everything was used when Jim put it in. Stuff won't last forever. Why do these things always happen when you're broke? I waited an extra day for Ray to call back, --he never does-- and got the word that, "...everything's fine, you've got water!"
"I've got water in the lake, how about the cottage? How come it runs for you and not for me?! I've been here before with auto mechanics..." Ray explained that one of the main valves from the pump was turned off, and with the pressure up inside the pump it wouldn't switch on. Not broken. He opened the valve and now it works fine.
"I didn't turn off any valve."
"Well, maybe I did..." says Ray. I decided not to ask why he'd do that. And so everything will be fine for next weekend. We'll go up and get open for the summer.
Except. Why did the pump lose its prime the first time? And why would Ray turn off a valve like that? Completely illogical act. Is someone playing games with me? Creepy.
The next weekend....
Ann is barely visible through the steam gushing from the cold-water tap in the kitchen. I can't get what she's yelling at me because the steam is making this roaring teakettle scream. I am at first, puzzled. Steam only comes from hot water hitting cold surfaces. Hot water does not come from the cold-water tap. Everyone knows this. Something is wrong.
Well, I'm a bit of a handyman, as you know, so I figured it out for myself. The first clue was the hot water line running from the tank to the T-joint (I know this stuff) that supplies (another plumbing term) the outside spigot. Since when does hot water go to an outside faucet? Given there was only one other possible place this line could go I deduced that the lines were connected to the wrong places. So, I switched them. Switching involves turning off the pump, shutting the valves that supply scalding hot water to the system (and the work area) and bleeding off the line pressure by opening a tap inside. Bet you didn't know that.
What had happened was, a closed loop of hot water had been created by the mis-connected lines resulting in the water heater heating the entire system. The toilet was steaming hot. Left unchecked I suppose the pump would have heated, the intake line would have heated, perhaps the entire lake, resulting in vast thermal pollution, dead fish and law suits. The hydro bill alone would be staggering.
Thank goodness for a sharp mind and some simple skills.
That fixed, I decided to save my corrective discussion with Ray for the morrow. But why was the pump now running every ten minutes or so? I had noticed an in-line valve that was leaking and smugly concluded that old Ray had neglected to properly drain it last Fall. So the broken valve was bleeding pressure causing the pump to come on. I had it all figured out. We'll attend to that in the morning.
The next morning when I looked again and saw water leaking from one of the lines I'd switched I experienced a sudden rush of humility. I applied a second clamp, escalating the leak to a spray. I tightened both clamps, and the spray got bigger. I shut off the water to that line. The bad valve was still bad, but my fix was even worse. I'm glad I inspected the mess before I phoned Ray because it saved me from sounding like the arrogant fool I'd become.
Plumbing is simple in principle and maddening in practice. Plumbing can't be merely close enough, or good enough, or nearly right. Fix it. Turn it on. Water sprays or it doesn't. It is one of those absolute skills.
Faced with this opportunity to carry on with my good work, continue to figure it out and perhaps even enjoy that ultimate satisfaction of getting it right, or calling Ray, I called Ray.
You see, Ray is there, and I am not. Ray has two weeks to fix this thing. I have no time at all, unless I can fix it today, Sunday, with the tools and parts at hand. In the end, some of us fix things with our tools; most of us use our checquebooks.
Every cottager I know has gaped in wonder at the odd mechanical systems they inherited from the previous owner. We must remember, it was an even longer trip into town for them. It's not them, it's the Rays of this world that are the root source of all those legendary cottage concoctions, the strange, jury-rigged, improvisational solutions that baffle and defeat the next owner.
When I speak of cottage-country labour to fellow cottagers over drinks in the city there is a universal kindred bond signified by the rolling eye. I suggest to you all that as quirky and flawed as it may be, cottage country labour has saved our bacon again and again. The solutions may be odd, there will be subsequent aggravations, but in the end the pump will run and the water will flow. And those of us who haven't the time or the skills to assert our rugged independence have cottages to enjoy for the few fleeting weekends of good weather that passes for summer up here.
Next time Ray comes around I'm going to get him a beer.
Sorry, Sanskrit has me a bit worried and busy. This, my friends, is the hardest class I've ever taken, beating Japanese, World Religions, and Linguistics hands down.
Here. Have a little vacation at my dad's north country cottage.
Cottage Country Labour.
Jim McTaggart has departed the lake. We miss him all ready. Very selfishly, because the troubles have begun, an eerie hex has fallen on the mechanical systems he installed.
The water system. Remember how pleased I was with myself last summer for having replaced the pressure tank? I may be rich with pleasure opportunities this year.
Two weeks ago we made a brief day trip to move the boat from storage to the marina. When we arrived there was no marina, or rather it was still on shore. The windy cold weather has retarded everyone's progress this year.
We also found that the pump was making a rough noise and no water was coming through. Foot valve's stuck, thought I, I'll have Ray Harvey give it a look. Ray's the new cottage labour, another retired construction guy who gets no summer because he let it be known he was available to fix things for helpless and/or lazy cottagers. At least he understands composting toilets.
The next weekend, we were up there in earnest to get things open, cold rainy wind-spitting nasty weather or not. This time the pump didn't even run. We can brave the cruel North if there's a hot shower to jump into, but this was too much to ask.
Home again, call Ray again: "No problem, I'll just go over there and fire her up 'n see what's wrong!"
"No, Ray, you won't fire her up, because the pump doesn't run at all. I think it's burned out."
For the next couple of days I calculated replacement costs for the whole system. Heck, everything was used when Jim put it in. Stuff won't last forever. Why do these things always happen when you're broke? I waited an extra day for Ray to call back, --he never does-- and got the word that, "...everything's fine, you've got water!"
"I've got water in the lake, how about the cottage? How come it runs for you and not for me?! I've been here before with auto mechanics..." Ray explained that one of the main valves from the pump was turned off, and with the pressure up inside the pump it wouldn't switch on. Not broken. He opened the valve and now it works fine.
"I didn't turn off any valve."
"Well, maybe I did..." says Ray. I decided not to ask why he'd do that. And so everything will be fine for next weekend. We'll go up and get open for the summer.
Except. Why did the pump lose its prime the first time? And why would Ray turn off a valve like that? Completely illogical act. Is someone playing games with me? Creepy.
The next weekend....
Ann is barely visible through the steam gushing from the cold-water tap in the kitchen. I can't get what she's yelling at me because the steam is making this roaring teakettle scream. I am at first, puzzled. Steam only comes from hot water hitting cold surfaces. Hot water does not come from the cold-water tap. Everyone knows this. Something is wrong.
Well, I'm a bit of a handyman, as you know, so I figured it out for myself. The first clue was the hot water line running from the tank to the T-joint (I know this stuff) that supplies (another plumbing term) the outside spigot. Since when does hot water go to an outside faucet? Given there was only one other possible place this line could go I deduced that the lines were connected to the wrong places. So, I switched them. Switching involves turning off the pump, shutting the valves that supply scalding hot water to the system (and the work area) and bleeding off the line pressure by opening a tap inside. Bet you didn't know that.
What had happened was, a closed loop of hot water had been created by the mis-connected lines resulting in the water heater heating the entire system. The toilet was steaming hot. Left unchecked I suppose the pump would have heated, the intake line would have heated, perhaps the entire lake, resulting in vast thermal pollution, dead fish and law suits. The hydro bill alone would be staggering.
Thank goodness for a sharp mind and some simple skills.
That fixed, I decided to save my corrective discussion with Ray for the morrow. But why was the pump now running every ten minutes or so? I had noticed an in-line valve that was leaking and smugly concluded that old Ray had neglected to properly drain it last Fall. So the broken valve was bleeding pressure causing the pump to come on. I had it all figured out. We'll attend to that in the morning.
The next morning when I looked again and saw water leaking from one of the lines I'd switched I experienced a sudden rush of humility. I applied a second clamp, escalating the leak to a spray. I tightened both clamps, and the spray got bigger. I shut off the water to that line. The bad valve was still bad, but my fix was even worse. I'm glad I inspected the mess before I phoned Ray because it saved me from sounding like the arrogant fool I'd become.
Plumbing is simple in principle and maddening in practice. Plumbing can't be merely close enough, or good enough, or nearly right. Fix it. Turn it on. Water sprays or it doesn't. It is one of those absolute skills.
Faced with this opportunity to carry on with my good work, continue to figure it out and perhaps even enjoy that ultimate satisfaction of getting it right, or calling Ray, I called Ray.
You see, Ray is there, and I am not. Ray has two weeks to fix this thing. I have no time at all, unless I can fix it today, Sunday, with the tools and parts at hand. In the end, some of us fix things with our tools; most of us use our checquebooks.
Every cottager I know has gaped in wonder at the odd mechanical systems they inherited from the previous owner. We must remember, it was an even longer trip into town for them. It's not them, it's the Rays of this world that are the root source of all those legendary cottage concoctions, the strange, jury-rigged, improvisational solutions that baffle and defeat the next owner.
When I speak of cottage-country labour to fellow cottagers over drinks in the city there is a universal kindred bond signified by the rolling eye. I suggest to you all that as quirky and flawed as it may be, cottage country labour has saved our bacon again and again. The solutions may be odd, there will be subsequent aggravations, but in the end the pump will run and the water will flow. And those of us who haven't the time or the skills to assert our rugged independence have cottages to enjoy for the few fleeting weekends of good weather that passes for summer up here.
Next time Ray comes around I'm going to get him a beer.
