Fixing Someone’s Drip Line

Yes, after 8 mos. asking Old Roommate when are we going to talk about our future, I have moved my life essentials 75 miles south*, and I have been here each night for a fortnight (now 7 months) – even had both of our widowed mothers over for a joint Mother’s Day dinner, picked them up and brought them here and took them home and made them sit together in the back seat together both ways. They. Loved. It.

The sonic rhythms of the neighborhood are different here. A lot of Marine Corps helicopters, for one thing.  But that might be another story.

Today we had breakfast burritos, then worked in the yard.

She was genuinely surprised when I asked for help testing my drip line repair. It was easier than I thought it would be, like 15 minutes when I had estimated internally 2 or as many as 4 hours. Still, she gladly came outside and kissed me as she went by to manually operate the sprinkler controls.

“5?” she asked as she walked toward the sprinkler control box.

“5,” I shouted after her.

When she turned 5 on, the patches I had made had held. Unfortunately, the two patches I had not made had not held. I only had two compression couplings left. Could I fix both geysers without another trip to Home Depot, or was it worth a 16-mile round trip? As opposed to an 8-mile round trip from the other place where I fixed drip lines, where I had a much more comprehensive and organized supply of drip system parts? Note to self: Organize and inventory the drip system parts here.

“What?” she called from up the yard.

“Got it,” I shouted back.

Some quick math told me if I found no more spouts, I had enough compression couplings to finish the job. Do I want to assure myself of the number of spouts I saw by testing the line again after announcing it done? Do I want to ensure it’s done right? But I fixed two, and did I see four, or did I decide the stream I saw coming off the gazania was a deflection?

The only way to ensure it’s done is to test it again, so, “Wait, honey, could you try it one more time?”

“OK.”

“Thanks, I’ve got it.”

Just under 2 hours, with trip to Home Depot, so we had time to put the tomato cages over the tomato plants.

Then we deadheaded a large kitchen garbage bag full of roses.

That felt like a productive day, but we both knew it would have been a slow morning 35 years ago.

Later, I called Mom to ask if she needed help with her new electronic devices. She was reluctant to commit. “No, I don’t need help with my devices, but if you guys want to drive all the way up here, maybe we could go get some dinner.”

OK, I’ll talk to you tomorrow on the chat.

“It sounds like she’d like some company.”

Well, it’s too late now. She’s probably starting to cook dinner.

“I think she’d like a visit.”

Well, OK, I’ll call her.

“Sure, there’s a Chinese place on Cal Oaks, or a Mexican place on Los Alamos. Or we could try that new Italian place next to Ritchie’s.”

OK, but I wasn’t wrong, I was just clueless.

We tried the Italian place next to Ritchie’s. Reservation only, but they found room for us after I freed the host to go greet the group arriving behind us, who clearly had reservations, and he was relieved to learn that they were “early” and “not all here yet,” so he had some time to “push some tables together, and then I’ll seat you,” he said, I think to me. But we were only three.

I kept being struck, during dinner, at the distressed brick wall opposite me and the cognitive dissonance with the asphalt and stucco I knew were outside. How different the ambience must be to be seated on the patio!

I might have been alone in my thoughts.

Afterwards, I got Mom’s iPad connected to her Facebook account so she can IM with the family all week without having to set up separate groups for Family-and-Bill’s-current-SO and for Family-and-Bill’s-former-SO. 

Then today we needed some more of the blue rocks that go over the black weed barrier in the planter with the plumeria and the orchid tree, which I need to trim with my pole pruner before the gardener gets here and fills up all the green bins before Trash Day.  At least now I can wheel the green bin through the new gate on the west side of the house to the back yard, after we shrink the planter that approaches within 28 5/8” of the outdoor cat play area when the wheels of the green bin are 31 inches wide, outside to outside, instead of wheeling it through the house or asking the renters to unlatch the gate so I can wheel the barrow through the “private yard” the renter is paying for.

So we went to Southwest Boulder and bought four 40-pound bags of the blue rocks and waited near the open hatchback of our orange Prius and watched other customers enter then exit the office carrying yellow and white sheets of paper and maneuver their trucks and trailers onto the vehicle scale and wait for the skip loader to come fill their beds with half a ton or a ton or a ton and a half of sand or rock or aggregate or whatever, and by some sorcery not apparent to the weekend home landscaper with his Pandemic Ponytail, the next skip loader load was always exactly what the driver of the next truck/trailer on the scale had bought and paid for.

With the new gate, I didn’t need to lug 40-pound sacks of blue rocks through the house. I could get the wheelbarrow and wheel the rocks through the new gate, along the new brick paver path, and across the portable, folding bamboo pathways to the back patio where the plumeria and the orchid tree lived under the shade of the ficus tree. Had some trouble when the wheel balked at an uphill section of the bamboo pathway, but nothing a good running start and a solid shove at the top couldn’t overcome.

Stopping short of the planter, I asked, “Where do you want these stones?”

“Can you wheel them around here?” she asked.  “I want to spread them from this side.”

Seeing a narrow, wet rock path up a slight incline to “this side,” and remembering how Mr. Wheelbarrow had struggled over the portable, folding bamboo pathways, I asked, “Do you want the wheelbarrow back there, or just the rocks?”

Old Roommate would have answered with a question: “Wouldn’t it be easier to just wheel the barrow over here and dump the bags out instead of carrying them?”

As I said, the entrance to the path behind the planter was a tricky uphill run paved with loose, jagged stones, with scrap lumber that narrowed the wet rock path up the slight incline even further stacked in a neat pile next to the planter, and with two more 40-pound bags to retrieve from the hatchback compartment of the orange Prius out front, I would have repeated my question about the necessity for the wheelbarrow itself’s presence atop the incline, and then there would have been an argument and no one would have been happy with how the blue rocks turned out.

New Roommate answered, “Just the rocks is fine, whatever works best for you.”

In 15 minutes, the other two bags had been retrieved, paving stones piled haphazardly from a previous initiative had been organized and utilized to form a watering well around the plumeria, and the blue rocks had been dumped and spread. Evenly. Covering all the black weed barrier cloth. To everyone’s satisfaction.

With the extra time we spent not arguing, we also had time to hunt down all the standing water from yesterday’s rain and dump it on plants that still looked thirsty.

Later we prepared leftovers together for dinner, ate, and watched the last few minutes of the Tide vs the Aggies, and then SNL.