The Battle of Sand "Yow!"

We’re attempting to solve the water problem today … a science experiment, really.

Riley inspects the battlefield.

Because hot-water heaters rely on convection, I’ve reasoned that my problem of hot water coming from the cold-water faucets (see prior post) is chicken-egg: I can’t rid the hot water from the cold side until I shut down the hot-water heaters, drain all of the hot water from both sides of the pipes, then start the heaters anew.

Cold water will have then returned to the incoming, cold-water pipes of the heaters. The heaters will then warm the cold water, sending it to the top of the tanks, where it will be disbursed through the heaters’ hot-water pipes. Back to normal!

Sounds reasonable. We’ll see if it works.

Meanwhile, my differences with the chipmunks continue. 

Folks linked in on Facebook know it’s not been a quiet week.  I’ve now dubbed this engagement The Chipmunk Wars. 

They started it.  Whether upon orders from House or on their own – my suspicion remains that they and House have at least a loose coalition – it's the chipmunks that began this clash.

As mentioned last time, they tunneled under the brick patio … intricate trails every which way. And they did so very quickly!  Because one day the patio was firm and walkable, the next day, a minefield – brick after brick prone to collapse, risking life and limb to the walker.

So I battled back.  Last weekend I pulled up each collapsed brick, filled the tunnels with sand, re-set the brick, then packed sand around the bricks’ sides.  I did this humanely, by the way, making sure there were no young chipmunks nesting. I’m at war, but the Geneva Convention applies.

I went to bed that night confident of my work. “That’ll send ‘em a message,” I said.

The next morning, first thing, I let the dogs out.  They shot straight to the newly set bricks.

"Yow!"

For the chipmunks had sent me a clear message. Overnight, they had pulled virtually every grain of packed sand up and away from my neatly positioned bricks. It was stealth work, certainly involving night scopes and deep reconnaissance.

I was stunned. I swear I could hear a chattering chorus of Alvins. “Libertas!”

It was a shot across the bow … an insult, really. Worse, I inspected the tunnel’s original opening, and they had started to dig again!

 

I’ve now come to call this the Battle of Sand “Yow!” – the first engagement in The Chipmunk Wars.

I’m torn.  I love nature.  Love chipmunks, really. My first really good middle-school essay was about a chipmunk on the cottage roof in Michigan.  Such a sweet story ….

So, do I regroup and launch another offensive? 

Or am I on the wrong side of history?

Maybe in the eyes of the Almighty, the chipmunks are nature’s Hogan’s Heroes. If so, that’d make me their Colonel Klink. Ugh.

That’d also make the dogs, who have been worthless in this fight, a pair of Sgt. Schultzes: “We hear nothing. We see nothing. We know nothing!”

Perhaps negotiation is in order.  Maybe I cede the patio’s north side to them; I’ll keep the south.  Be a partner with nature.

It’s something to ponder.  After all, there’s no point in upsetting the Big Guy.

I’m in enough hot water as it is.

This old testy house

It’s a bit disconcerting when your house begins to do odd things.

After all, you trust it to keep you safe – from the elements and other outside threats.

Our house.  Long a friend, but ...

So when it starts to act up inside … well, you think bad things.  Perhaps it's grown tired of your quiet lifestyle; maybe it seeks a more “go-go” tenant – a SimCity family with constant cha-chas in the living room and ever-expanding additions, like spas and tennis courts and 20-seat media centers with giant popcorn wagons.

Or maybe it thinks you’ve not done enough to keep up basic appearances.

For a Harry Homeowner like me, that’d be the worst.    

Sure, it took 12 years before we installed a new storm door at our front entrance. But I didn’t think the house cared.  We’d done other things to win its affection – a new kitchen, new living-room lights, fresh paint in parts of the lower floors, some new windows.

Heck, I’d even sung that Crosby, Stills and Nash song in the shower a few times.

“Our house, is a very, very, very fine house …”

So, when something this fundamental, this reflective of the house’s very core goes awry, it catches my attention.

You see, I turned on the cold water Sunday morning. Out spilled hot.

There are few certainties in life, but two among them are that hot water comes from the left faucet and cold water from the right.

But last weekend, when I opened the right, poured a glass of water to take my daily regimen of vitamins and such, and found the water as steamy as Old Faithful, I knew something was amiss. And it wasn’t just one faucet … it was all of them.

Oh, and we still got hot water from the hot faucets as well.

It could be I’m to blame, although I don’t think so.  You see, we’re upgrading two bathrooms – Zach’s and Meghan’s.  The kids are older now and out of the house, so we thought it a good time to remodel.  To save money, Cindy and I agreed to do the tear-out.  Our builder friends who helped re-do the kitchen will handle the installation of the new fixtures.

But before we started hauling out sinks and toilets on Saturday, I thought it wise to turn off some key valves in the garage. 

The new hot-water valve.

It’s a long story about what happened next.  Basically, though, I busted one of the valves because of its age.  And because I couldn’t find a replacement at the hardware store – and hot water was dripping heavily into a bucket in the garage – I called a plumber to come rescue me and replace the valve.

One would assume a new valve would be the end of it.  The new valve should allow unfettered travel for the hot water along the hot-water pipes.  The cold water pipes, meanwhile, were never touched.  So everything should be back to normal.

But it’s not. Days later, hot water still flows from the cold-water faucets.

Now, I’ve racked my brain trying to determine how this happened.  I’ve gone on-line, thinking somebody, somewhere in the world, has experienced the same. Nope. I’ve asked friends who are clever with the workings of a house.  No help.

I’ve also lamented the passing of Dad, my engineer father.  I know I could share the symptoms and he’d have an answer, immediately.

I also know there’s an explanation, and we’ll have it soon. I swear.  Sure, I could risk embarrassment and ask a plumber.  But I see this as a personal challenge – it’s a simple problem of physics, I tell myself. I’ll figure it out. 

But deep down, I also worry the house is behind it … that I’ve somehow upset its karma, and its blood is boiling. 

Maybe it was the sledgehammer that I used to bust up Zach’s old bathtub. John Henry had nothing on me last Saturday. Cindy swore I was wrestling a bear. I had to wear earplugs. The dogs cowered.

Where the tub was.

The poundings were so fierce they reached into the highest rafters and deep into the foundation … into the house’s very soul.

I guess if I’d rested comfortably for 50 years only to be whacked awake, I’d be testy, too.

Anyway, having hot water everywhere requires some adjustment … say, when you brush your teeth. (Ick.) The value of ice cubes, like oil, has skyrocketed. And I won’t even describe the toilet experience except to say that it’s a convenient space heater.

But it is what it is.  The house is doing odd things with its pipes … so what?  We can live with that. At least it’s an isolated problem.

Though … maybe not.  Last Sunday night, I stepped out on the brick patio en route to the grill, tired from the weekend tear-out but ready for a good meal.  As I stepped on one brick, then another, a few of the bricks quickly sank – 4 inches or more.

“What the heck?!”

For 12 years, since we’ve been here, they’ve held firm.  Now this, on this night. My stomach soured … I looked at the house, then the bricks, then the house.  I glared at its walls.

“What’s wrong with you?!”  I said.

Treacherous bricks!

I quickly danced across the rest of the patio, hoping it would hold … like running on cracking ice, but more like Indiana Jones when he escaped the cave. You remember … the giant rock in pursuit, his feet touching the stones that triggered deadly arrows.

I expected flying nuts tossed by conscripted squirrels.  Or bullets dropped by birds.  Or even the ornery, neighborhood White Cat leaping from the dark, hissing, scratching, clawing.  (Yeah, House, I’ve seen that devilish White Cat rub warmly against your sides many a time. I know you are friends. Don’t deny it.)

Cindy now thinks I’m paranoid … that the brick problem is simply chipmunks that have burrowed tunnels underneath.  The dogs think that, too.  They sniff and scrape and scratch. They smell something.

But that just proves my point: It was House, roused from deep slumber, who ordered the chipmunks to march last weekend … to feverishly dig tunnels Saturday night and all through the day Sunday.

You see, House knows my routine – knows Sunday night is grilling night. Knows the path I walk. And what's next?  Exploding light sockets?  Flying lawnmower blades?

Can I trust the chair?

Okay … maybe I am being paranoid. Sure … I’ll figure out this hot-water problem. There’s got to be a logical explanation.

Maybe I'll go make some hot tea from the cold tap right now, settle in the big chair and get this solved.

Still, though … what if the big chair begins to spin. Like that scene from Austin Powers. You remember, when Dr. Evil is turned wildly, out of control. 

“I need an old priest and a young priest!” he shouted.

Well, it may come to that.