Septic shock
We moved to Lake Carmel from Brooklyn. The house into which we moved had been a summer bungalow, constructed some time before 1939. In its original layout, it measured, just under 800 square feet, along with the two porches. We moved in with eight people and two dogs. A tight fit.
When we decided to move from the relative comfort of bedrooms, city water, city sewers, bathtubs and showers, we had to make some modifications to the house on Ogden and Clarkson Roads. It was an adventure. It all began in the spring of 1953.
My parents bought the house from my maternal grandmother, who, along with my grandfather, lived with us for six months out of the year. It was the site of my best summer memories. The house, again in its original state, had running water collected in a large metal tank designed to catch runoff from the roof and, through gravity, supplied water to the toilet and the sinks in the kitchen and bathroom. Potable water came from a spring about a quarter of a mile away. It was an every-other-day chore to bring it in bottles to the house. The bathroom, by the way, would have been categorized as “powder room,” with a sink and a commode – no bathtub, no shower. Ablutions were achieved in a large metal tub filled with a combination of water heated on an outdoor fireplace mixed with cold water from a rain barrel. You could have a “bath” in your bathing suit once a week if you didn’t mind sharing the water with others. Yup, that’s how it was then.
My parents hired a well digger, a legendary fellow who used a dousing rod to decide where to dig, and, at 75 feet, he hit a gusher: 25 gallons per minute. But water is not of much value unless you can bring it into the house. This required hiring a bunch of sketchy-looking fellows who dug out a cellar to house the equipment necessary for year-round living. They produced a subterranean dirt floor space that could only be accessed through an outdoor bulkhead. I was 13 at the time and I can remember my father telling me to stay in the house when the diggers were there.
Someone from Sears came and placed a water heater and a washer and a dryer in that cellar. You had to walk through the snow in winter to do the laundry. Yes, you wore coats and boots to get clean underwear from the dryer.
Another guy, who seemed to wear only gray striped overalls spattered with what looked like grease stains, installed a furnace and ran heating ducts through the walls. This replaced a pot belly stove in the living room.
Then there was the second floor. My Dad hired a man named Mr. Clark to build it so that there were places for us to sleep. He and his son raised the roof and added four bedrooms and a bathroom that could accommodate a tub and shower.
The little structure was built to house about four people who would only use the facilities for four months out of the year … tops. Now we would be eight, sometimes nine for 12 months, so Dad hired a local company to expand the septic system. This effort provided us with unexpected days of fun as well as strict rules about using water anywhere in the house.
All work on the septic system came to a halt, however, when the backhoe discovered a boulder that it couldn’t move. The septic company wanted to hire someone to come in and blast that rock out. Up until then, my Dad, who had to go to work every day in the city, had hired professionals.
But this time, the neighbors, people who Dad knew for years, talked my father into trying to get the rock out without the use of explosives.
So, there they were: Joe C. and his brother-in-law John P., some other guy whose name I’ve forgotten and my Dad, standing around the rock with their hands in their pockets, their heads bobbing as they rattled off suggestions.
Everyone had a sledgehammer and, using bandanas for protection, the rock crew got to work. They chipped away for two days. My mother was beside herself worrying about the flying pieces of rock, wringing her hands and yelling things like, “Children, stay inside away from the windows,” “You could go blind” or “I don’t have enough bandages.” Yes, there were a lot of chips off the rock but also a lot of masculine sore muscles that were the prime motivators of other ideas.
The next attempt at removal, as we all waited nervously, was based on something that Joe said he read about building the pyramids. You build a hot fire over the rock and, when it was glowing from the heat, douse it with water, causing it to fissure. There is a kind of male thing about trying this stuff out and so, after accumulating a lot of wood, and my mother’s urgent reminder that they have the hose ready to protect the house, they began to heat the rock.
The effort attracted a lot of onlookers. It was the event of the season on Clarkson Road and its surroundings. There was a big fire, then a lot of hissing when the water hit. It made a big mess. It didn’t work.
Back to standing around, the men with hands in their pockets now were going to try again to heat the rock but then they would douse it with not water but vinegar. I am not kidding.
Vinegar was no better than water, leaving the rather pungent aroma of a badly burned barrel of sour pickles – awful.
Finally, and I think my mother had a lot to do with this, my Dad called the septic guy back.
The day came, local onlookers arrived. The demolition guy set the charges and boom, a very little boom and the rock collapsed into a thousand pieces.
The hands-in-the-pocket crew attributed the rather small explosion to the work they had done with heat and sundry liquids. I love my father and he could most assuredly build a sunny day, but … really?
