Dig

I have been digging an enormous hole in my backyard. I don't think there's any part of me left that doesn't ache.

We have had, of late, what I will euphemistically refer to as "a plumbing problem." It's not that much of a euphemism, it does involve actual plumbing, but trust me, you really don't want me to get into the details. The best we've-tried-other-solutions-and-none-of-them-worked hope of addressing this problem was to come in through what's called the "clean out," an access point along the main drainage pipe, closer to the street than the house. I was kindly provided with a diagram of where the pipes lurk, somewhere beneath the ground (courtesy of our Town Engineering Department), with measurements and everything — but the connection goes this way and that at several points, and I had no way to turn the angles that had been carefully noted into anything that would be remotely useful. So I had to make a best guess. But I was reasonably certain I'd come close, based on what I could work out from the diagram.

Making matters worse, though, the notes were that the clean out was 4' deep underground, more or less. So not only did I not know where it was, I'd have to dig four feet down, maybe more, to even have a chance of finding it.

Armed with a brand new shovel (I couldn't find the old one), and the desire to avoid the quoted $850 excavation charge, I dug in (heh), hoping for the best.

Three hours later, I'd come to an impasse. I was almost 4' deep, but it had become virtually impossible to get the loose dirt out of the hole, which at this point was only slightly larger than I was. I had made the hole slightly wider at the bottom, so I could maneuver better (I thought that might offer a better chance of finding a buried pipe, as well), but I wasn't getting much of anywhere. I climbed out of the hole to call my wife and admit defeat. Shameful, ignominious defeat that would set the cause of our budget back by $850.

It was after I got off the phone with her that I noticed the very small patch of blue green against the dirt, on the wall of the hole. At first, I thought it might be a leaf.

Sure enough, though, it was the clean out. All along, it had been right next to where I had been digging. Even better, it wasn't four feet below the surface — it was four inches. If I had moved just a step further away from the house when I started to dig, I would have uncovered it in all of three minutes.

I walked into the house, calmly, quietly, and let loose with the loudest and longest torrent of cursing I think I have ever uttered in my adult life. (But it was all in cartoon voices, and there was nobody but the cats at home to hear it, anyway.)