Septic Tanks

I’ve been thinking a lot about my Dad lately. Not because he was a great father; after all, he didn’t want to be married to Mama, nor did he want any of his children.

My Dad has been dead most of my life. He died when I was fourteen, and he was just thirty-nine. He wasn’t the kind of father who showed affection unless it was inappropriate touching, which I talk about in my forthcoming book. However, I learned a lot of practical life skills from him. For instance, how to swing a hammer and the different types of screwdrivers and pliers. He taught me how to use a saw, a sledgehammer, and a shovel.

Three weeks ago, my husband Jeff and I decided to have our septic tank pumped out. We will be hosting our daughter’s wedding here next November and thought we should tackle big projects immediately.

The lovely young man from the septic company came out as scheduled, but when he looked into the first opening, he said we had big problems. Our beloved redwood tree had filled the openings to the tank with roots. We would need a contractor to dig down to the tank and replace the risers and remove the roots.

Ugh, not what we wanted to hear. Jeff scheduled the contractor, but first, we had to remove three large sections of our fairly new fence and remove the landscaping, which had grown and filled in so beautifully since they were planted four years ago.

My heart ached for my beautiful plants. We created a plant hospital where we could tend to them for a couple of weeks before putting them back in the ground—watering them, hoping we wouldn’t get an early frost.

After two days of work, the contractor’s backhoe made a royal mess of our front yard. They left, and we had the monumental task of returning everything to normal.

While my husband was at work, I grabbed a shovel and the wheelbarrow and started clearing rock and debris. I could hear my Dad’s voice in my head, “there is a right way to use a shovel.” I chuckled to myself, also hearing him say, “make sure you’re using the right shovel for the job.”

As the blade of my shovel struck the dirt and rocks filling to just the right level, I swung it towards the wheelbarrow, turning the shovel slightly to dump the contents. The first shovel full makes the most noise, the rocks clanging against the metal, then as the barrow fills, the noise becomes softer. Dirt and rocks are meeting again.

I remembered what it was like to learn how to use this vital tool. At seven, I was slight and not strong enough to wield something heavy. I became better at it with time until I could hold my own when working alongside my Dad.

“Don’t overfill the barrow,” he said. Once again, I chuckled. I recalled eight years ago when we purchased this house. We had fourteen tons of pea gravel delivered, and it had to be moved to the garden. Each day I would spend several hours filling the wheelbarrow and dumping it into the garden.

My daughter came to visit one weekend and offered to help. She said, “Mom, seriously, we can finish this today.” I explained that it’s not as easy as you think, but she was determined to move several tons of gravel.

It was her first time using a shovel. Filling the wheelbarrow was easy. I cautioned her not to fill it past a certain point, but she was strong and young and didn’t listen. When she picked up the handles of the full barrow, she couldn’t hide her surprise at just how heavy it was, but she persisted. As she struggled to get the load to the garden fifty yards away, I again cautioned her that pushing it up the slight hill wouldn't be easy. She believed that she could muscle it up the hill and when the entire load turned over, she was in shock.

I thought it was hilarious. Except for the part where it all needed to be picked up, she was now discouraged, so I would lose help. She looked at me wide-eyed and said, “Mom, I can’t believe you grew up having to do this kind of sh*t.” I tried to explain that there is an art to using a shovel and a wheelbarrow. There is a rhythm and flow to it as there is to everything.

Back to the task at hand. Focusing on moving dirt, rocks, and debris, I managed to prep the garden area for the weed cloth, drip irrigation system, and plants. Feeling quite pleased, I retrieved my flat shovel from the shed and began digging the trench near the riser directly beneath the fence; we needed some space to rebuild that section. Everything was ready. This would be a huge undertaking.

Bright and early Saturday morning, with great trepidation, Jeff and I began. Thankfully, we work well together. For the past twenty years, we have successfully done projects large and small. There is a definite rhythm to how we work; we barely use words, know what to do, check in with each other when in doubt, and trust each other with a drill when fingers are dangerously close. We know the other is skilled at using a nail gun, drills, and skill saws. It’s our way of dancing. We both feel the music of building. Regular dancing is not our forte. We failed three times at basic ballroom dancing. I have a pesky habit of wanting to lead, and Jeff can’t hear the beat of the music.

Again, my thoughts drifted to my Dad. He taught me the proper way to wield a hammer, use a level, and mix cement. Grateful for the lessons he taught. He certainly was no Father Knows Best kind of Dad, but he taught me skills that have served me well.

Exhausted and sore, we returned our plants to their original places the following day. Once again, shovels came into play. As tired as we are, we are proud of what we accomplished. After all, how many seventy-year-old people could do this in two days?