No Fury Like a Woman Drenched

Friday, March 14, 2008

Page 15

AT THE SIDEBAR (Column)

No Fury Like a Woman Drenched

By J’AMY PACHECO

I believe that I am in hell, therefore I am there.

—Arthur Rimbaud

A few days ago, I passed through the garage to take a bag of recyclables outside. Although I’m not known for making mental notes of anything, I did, for some reason, note that the sprinklers were running in my side yard, audible through the outside door.

When I returned to the garage several hours later, I dumped my purse in the front seat of the car and realized I could still hear the sprinklers running. I opened the door and discovered that I was the new proud owner of a lap pool where my side yard once stood bare and bone dry.

Yikes.

The water had not only pooled in my yard, but had formed a waterfall, the lower end of which was in my neighbor’s yard. The flow headed down her driveway and into the street. Since she was in the process of moving and her driveway was stacked with cardboard boxes containing all her worldly goods, I knew this was a bad situation.

Hurrying to the sprinkler control box, I turned the knob to “off.” Minutes passed, and the sprinklers continued to run. I jiggled the knob, turned it to other settings, returned to the “off” position, and still, the sprinklers continued to run.

I called my husband, who happened to be out of town. He suggested I unplug the unit. This might have been a simple task, if not for the fact that the prongs seemed welded into the socket, and the box contained a number of very large, very ugly and only slightly dead spiders.

I managed to get the plug out, and still, the sprinklers ran. My husband sent me to the backyard, where I found a network of valves that he said controlled the sprinklers. One was stuck; the others worked beautifully, as indicated by my suddenly soaking wet clothing. My husband suggested I get the rugged kitchen scissors and cut the wires to the broken valve.

Perhaps it was my sopping clothes, or maybe the muddy lake I was standing in, but I couldn’t help thinking that cutting the wires could only end in tragedy. I asked my husband if the fact that the other sprinklers came on when the valve was turned meant there still might be power to the unit.

“It shouldn’t,” he said unconvincingly. With little desire to become one of this year’s Darwin Award winners, I made the decision to shut the water off instead.

A neighbor helped me locate the underground valve that would shut off the water to my house. A quick check of my kitchen faucet confirmed that this valve had done its job.

Yet the sprinklers continued to run.

“I’m in Hell,” I told my neighbor. “I’m dead, and I’ve gone to Hell.”

My neighbor decided the only rational thing to do was to manually close each sprinkler head. His wife seemed skeptical.

“Won’t the pressure make one of them blow?” she asked. “It shouldn’t,” he replied. After exchanging glances, his wife and I grabbed rakes and headed to the landscaped jungle in my planter box to look for another water valve.

After a thorough search, we managed to find it — covered by a four or five inch circle of green plastic. My neighbor turned the valve and finally, after more than an hour of effort and a bazillion gallons of wasted water, the sprinklers finally stopped running.

Now, I’ve been through a lot in my life. I can’t tell you how many earthquakes I’ve felt, and I was in Oklahoma once when a tornado warning sounded. I even experienced a flood once in Houston. I was trapped in a third world country on my honeymoon when a national general strike was called, and I was a passenger on a jumbo jet that had to land with broken flaps. While all of those make for good stories, not one of them stressed me out as much as the Great Side Yard Flood of March 2008.

It’s ironic how the little things — like the knowledge that my neighbor’s newish-looking sweatsuit was covered with mud when he left my yard that day and my dread at seeing my next water bill – can do you in. How strange to think all that anxiety and expense was caused by a tiny sprinkler valve which, incidentally, hasn’t been fixed yet. I’m sure my yard will be dead — but dry — by Spring.

If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go check on prices for Astroturf. I’ve heard the road to Hell is paved with the stuff — and I definitely know why.