Years ago, I had trouble with my septic system. If you’ve ever had that kind of trouble, you know what kind of trouble it can be.

I was living in my old farmhouse out in the middle of the woods and had no idea where the sewage went until it suddenly went nowhere. That’s when I called the septic guy.

The house (and presumably the septic tank) was 100 years old, and I had never had occasion to get overly curious about where the septic tank was or exactly how it worked -- until it didn’t.

The septic guy located the tank and then made what I thought was a shocking comment. “There’s another one here somewhere,” he announced, and headed off into the woods, looking for another septic tank cover.

“There are two septic tanks?” I asked, confused.

“At least!” he said.

“Isn’t that unusual?”

“Not at all! I’ve seen up to five!”

“Five septic tanks?”

“Yup!” The septic guy was now searching through the underbrush like a hunter stalking his quarry. He smiled broadly. “The septic business is always an adventure!” he said.

I had honestly never thought of it that way.

Yesterday we had a somewhat similar situation under our feet. Fortunately, this one did not involve sewage, but only the floor -- which has been getting worse by the day.

The humidity has gotten the better of the inexpensive engineered wood flooring installed by the fellow who flipped the condo before selling it to us. The damage started as a buckle in the hallway, spread to some ripples in the kitchen, and is now making its way across the living room like furrows in a freshly plowed field. My husband, Peter, has had it.

“I don’t even like the color!” he said, looking out over the rippling black landscape. “I think we should rip it all out!”

And so yesterday a nice flooring man named Hayden came to visit. Hayden tut-tutted in what I thought was an appropriate way when he saw the ridges running the length of our floor.

“What’s underneath it?” Hayden wanted to know. Like my old septic system, it had never occurred to me to investigate.

"Rip it up!" Peter told him. “We’re getting rid of it anyway.” Hayden grabbed a chunk of the engineered wood and pulled.

“Parquet,” Hayden said.

“Excuse me?” I didn’t know what Hayden said, but it certainly couldn’t have been “parquet.”

“There’s parquet flooring underneath,” Hayden said, pulling off another board so we could see. “And it looks like it’s in pretty good shape, except for the paint they dripped on it.”

Peter and I stared at the beautiful oak parquet hidden beneath the dreadful rippling flooring. So now Hayden will be refinishing the parquet floors we never knew we had.

That evening, I talked to Vern, the guy at the front desk. He remembers Elizabeth, who owned our condo from the year it was built until she died last year. She was a character, and a bit of a hoarder, but apparently a wonderful person. “I’m betting she threw down carpet on that parquet and forgot all about it!” Vern said.

Today I’m grateful that Elizabeth never got around to remodeling, grateful the flipper was too lazy to remove the old flooring before he put in the new, grateful that Peter got sick enough of the growing bumps to do something about them. I keep going back to the hole Hayden ripped in the floor and looking at that lovely parquet hidden just beneath the surface all this time.

There are adventures everywhere, and not just in the septic business.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

I’m not sure when a house becomes a home, but I don’t think we’re quite there yet.

My husband, Peter, and I have moved into the new place. All our stuff is here, but that doesn’t mean we know where anything is.

“Have you seen the strainer?”

“Which strainer?”

“You know, the fine one.”

“No.”

We have about two dozen conversations like this every day. We got rid of a lot of stuff and now it’s hard to remember what we kept. Then I unpacked by myself, so Peter had to go on a scavenger hunt when he got here. Finally, we had the “last-minute essentials” we brought with us, and we’re still unpacking those. It’s a jumble. Peter was convinced (unreasonably, I assured him) that every T-shirt he owned had mysteriously been lost in the move.

“I found them!” I heard him yell from the bedroom. “Mystery solved!”

I am realizing how much I do on autopilot. I reach for a soap dispenser that isn’t there. “Do I even have a soap dispenser?” I wonder.

I look in a likely box and notice something I’d forgotten about and I put that away and, when I do, I notice something else in a drawer where it shouldn’t be and I move it. Suddenly, I find I am standing in the middle of the kitchen with no idea what I’m doing there.

“The soap dispenser!” I remind myself. I end up using the bar of soap in the bathtub.

Then there are all the things we need contractors to do. Nobody is excited about renovating an old condominium when there is so much new construction going on, so my day is spent wheedling contractors to come over. We need electrical fixtures installed, we need the flooring repaired where a bump has developed, and we’d like to replace the old yellow bathtub. Since I am better at wheedling than Peter, I make these calls. I have particular success if the contractor is married and I can wheedle his wife. I did that this morning and got the electrician, George, to come out in less than an hour.

It was a busy morning. In addition to George, a self-described “handyman” named Steve visited. Steve the handyman turned out to be quite handy and will be helping us out. George the electrician, however, turned out not to be an actual electrician, which was disappointing -- especially after I had had such a friendly chat with his wife. Not to mention, his card said “electrical contractor” across the top.

“Nope,” George said. “I can’t do that.” Oh well.

Meanwhile our little balcony (which is the best part of the whole place) is closed off for painting and maintenance.

“How much maintenance can a balcony take?” I asked Peter. Apparently quite a lot, as they have scaffolding running up the building and yellow ribbon running across the balcony like the scene of a crime.

“Don’t worry,” Peter says. “It will all get done.”

And, of course, he is right. We will get rid of the bump in the floor (which seems to be growing) and we will get to enjoy our balcony and we will have our electrical fixtures installed by someone who is actually an electrician. But for now, I am looking forlornly out at the forbidden balcony and wondering when this will feel like home.

We showed George the bathtub, and he said he could replace it. I think my next call will be to a plumber to see if he’d like to install some lighting fixtures.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

It was a good party.

Of course you would expect me to say that, since it was our going-away party and I am bound to be biased. But there were six dogs and plenty of food and lots of laughter and some tears and even a little barking and if that doesn’t qualify as a good party, I don’t know what does.

Jake, the mixed-breed pup who showed up first, was pretty chill when the entire family of border collies showed up -- all on leashes and looking like they owned the place. The border collies were delighted to see me because they had previously only seen me in their yard, handing out treats. It was like a colossal dog joke, seeing the Treat Lady in a totally different place. They were grinning from ear to ear and Jake decided they were OK.

But when the two wheaten terriers showed up, that was two dogs too many. Jake went crazy barking and his owner had to leave, which was sad. But the wheatens stayed, and they even performed “Who Let the Dogs Out” which their owner played on his phone while they barked along in time.

I was worried about the food because our kitchen is empty so this was a “Bring Your Own Everything” affair. I called my neighbor in a panic the morning of the party.

“Nancee! Should I buy potato salad? Should I make some garlic bread?”

“Why?” Nancee asked.

“I’m afraid there won’t be enough food! I have no idea what anyone is bringing.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Nancee said.

This was not Nancee’s first rodeo, so I trusted her. That evening, the table was completely covered with food. There wasn’t room for dessert until people ate up some of the salads and breads and chips and dips.

Charles, who is 85 and whose wife just died, came from across the street.

“How are you, Charles?” I asked.

“I’m sad!” he announced. “I’ve lost 15 pounds!”

“I’m so sorry, Charles,” I told him. “You better have more pasta salad.” And he did.

There were stories told and lots of laughs and I realized I knew more people than I thought I did, in this town where I spent most of my time alone. There were women from writers’ groups and people with dogs (of course) and neighbors of all ages, some of whom had never met each other. Everyone stayed much longer than I expected and it was fun to see these people together who seemed to have very little in common other than knowing my husband, Peter, and me.

It finally got dark, and that takes a while these days. The last people folded up their camp chairs and said their goodbyes. I made sure Charles had a lot of pasta salad to take home -- and five pieces of cheesecake.

“You do like cheesecake, don’t you, Charles?”

“Oh, sure,” he said.

“You have been a wonderful neighbor,” Peter told Charles, as I dished up pasta salad. “We will miss you.”

Charles’ eyes filled with tears as he took his boxes of food and headed back to his empty house.

“It was a good party,” I informed Peter, after everyone left, as I ate my traditional second dessert, the one a hostess is supposed to have after all the guests have left.

“It was,” Peter agreed.

“I think it was the best party ever,” I added.

“Why do you say it was the best party?” Peter wanted to know.

“There were dogs. The best parties have dogs.”

Peter couldn’t argue with that.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION