I wrote this essay sometime in the early spring of 09 (I think). It is my initial literary response to our Great Mud Encounter during construction of the Swamp House.
Last night, I dreamt about water. I’ve dreamt many times about water now. Dreamt that I live in a lake (up to my neck), dreamt that the water in my crawlspace is over my head, opaque with mud. These dreams are partially grounded in truth (which is often the case with dreams). We have discovered, halfway through the construction of our house, that we have water issues. Whether they are caused by a high water table, or by the vagaries of winter construction and haphazard backfill, or both, we don’t know yet. I am beyond complaining about it; I was informed about the high water table in Plain City before we bought the lot; now, I am in the mood for creative solutions. (And what does water table mean? Who came up with that term?) I’ve already had a few offered by our framers (who are no doubt beyond relieved that any and all mud issues fall outside the realm of their jurisdiction). Ron recommended snow shoes to prevent sinking in the mud. Sean simply grinned and suggested investing in a duck boat. And then allowed himself a full blown chuckle.
I lied. I am not beyond complaining yet.
So far, we have spent nearly a week of days squooshing hither and yon in the crawlspace with a rented pump, thinking hard, sweating, cracking our skulls on floor joists and beams, sucking water off and out of the mud. After we paid that due, we talked to anyone and everyone with experience or heavy machinery or a five day shadow, and came to the conclusion that we must install sump pumps (of course), and that we needed gravel in our crawlspace. We spent another week struggling to implement those grand ideas (ah, the futility of digging holes in slurpy mud covered by six inches of water!). That week was my “Concentration Camp” week (and I do not minimize—it was horrific). We ripped part of the floor up, so that a fancy gravel truck (worth a quarter of a million dollars, the driver proudly told us) could shoot tons of gravel into a couple of ten by twelve foot piles in the mire beneath our house. Then, with the help of several “temps” hired by the gravel company, we moved the piles, bucket by bucket, forty feet this way and forty feet that way. Or attempted to. In a back wrenching stoop, to avoid (unsuccessfully) cracking our skulls on the floor joists and beams. Our boots sucked down by mud. It was humbling to work with men who were willing to do such nasty, nasty work for a meager paycheck. Who otherwise would be out of work. I developed deeper opinions about imbalance: the imbalance of opportunity, the imbalance of the pay/sweat ratio in the workforce.
So now, we have four sump pumps and a moist, though mostly traversable, gravel packed floor in our crawlspace. And fans running constantly in an endeavor to put a stop to the mold growing on those skull cracking floor joists and beams. Hopefully the ground is firm enough now to have a vapor barrier installed by a team of insulators (we have discovered that any “team” down there tends to clog our sump pump buckets).
Next, I spent another part of a week outside with a shovel (Frank had started on the long delayed wiring), trying to channel water away from the foundation. Backfilling shovelful by sticky shovelful, the ground too soupy for the serious intervention of a backhoe (we know; we tried; the backhoe got seriously stuck). As I looked back over my work, I was astounded at what I’d accomplished (forgetting my earlier, chest-wrenching meltdown/sob session). The gardener in me swelled with pride; I had essentially double-dug the equivalent of a seven by forty-something foot flower border (la!), and hand dug a stream. I could rival the gravel truck driver in bragging rights now.
Which got me thinking, and made me hopeful… what if we could turn this disaster into a landscape asset? Haven’t I always wanted a bog garden? Haven’t I always wanted a pond? And a stream? What if I (is this too Babylonian) could have all of the water on my land where I wanted it, versus in my crawlspace? The prospect was dizzying. I don’t know if dizzy prospects are good–for me, or for anyone. Plus Frank keeps bringing up the mosquito factor.
But still! I have thought of a “dry” pond and stream, which would sometimes fill with water diverted far from the house, and sometimes dry in the heat and drought of summer. Siberian irises planted in and around. But what if it seeped? Should I worry about seepage? How far can seepage travel? Would I simply be recycling it right back into my crawlspace? And I have thought of a permanent pond and stream (EDPM lined) that would receive the outflow of our sump pumps. But I have wondered about that mysterious water table, wondered if it would bump up against the bottom of the black rubber of the pond, wondered if a low place would be an open invitation to receive all the excess of the block (how charitable should I be?). The whole drainage/water table thing is truly mysterious to me. Where it comes from, where it goes, how one ends up with it and another does not. I am so very aware that water is bigger than I am (as manifested in my dreams). Nevertheless, I muster my chutzpah, blow out my cheeks, furrow my brow, squint my eyes (not Babylonian at all, very Clint Eastwood). Name my dwelling “The Swamp House”, my little acre “Blue Bayou” (so Gertrude Jekyll, or Beryl Markham). Wield my shovel (Daniel Boone? Johnny Appleseed? Paul Bunyan?). Allow myself a full-blown chuckle.
Well, the end. The end of this chapter. What do I think? I cannot say. Just… please… nobody tell me I’m going to drown. And where might I find a good duck boat?
