My Uncle R. sent me this photo. He is the family historian I’ve mentioned before. And he has a great deal of patience to find and deliver pieces of history. Like this one.

This is my big brother. See how he’s cute? Yeah, still. But more old. And hairy. Just saying.

See how he’s probably got food in his mouth? Yeah, still. The man knows good food. It’s one of his best talents.

See how he’s the funny one? Yeah, still. And yeah, he still laughs at his own comedy. But he should. It’s funny.

See how I’m kind of reveling in the “I’m so proud of my big brother?” Yeah, still. He’s pretty awesome.

See how I’ve always struggled with clothing issues and awkward hair? Yeah — I’m working on it. “The Seventies” are no longer a valid excuse. Darn it.

See how I just might be planning something? Yeah. Still. That happens sometimes. It’s no longer quite so cute. But it does still happen.

See how we’re snuggled together in a large leather chair, with perfect lighting and an aura of happy childhood? That’s not exactly where we are anymore. I don’t have white furniture, because I’m not a white furniture kind of a girl. Neither does he. He has two boys and a dog, all right? And really? We’re full-sized humans. We don’t share chairs. But do you know what? I love to sit down with him. I love to get a good laugh on. I love that we can talk over the life parts and laugh about the laughable parts and breathe through the un-laughable parts and Be There, beside each other for all the parts. Even if we live many states away (which we sometimes do, but not right now). He grew up to be a clever guy, a terrific husband, a great dad, a hard worker, a willing and eager server, and a good all-around support. He Deals. With a great many things which are not my stories to tell, but include exciting parts and funny parts and really, really hard parts. And he does it with his own kind of joy. That kind, see above. The kind that makes you laugh your heart out with your mouth full of something delicious.

Once upon a time my smaller, younger family moved to Indianapolis. We found a great little neighborhood to live in, and we bought a cute little house for our cute little selves. The trees were enormous, the mortgage was not. Bunnies lived under the shed, and the birds alone were worth moving to Indiana for.  Also, we bargained for the kitchen chairs, which were handmade and super cool (I have yet to own another piece of furniture quite as awesome as those chairs).

So we moved into the house. We unpacked our little belongings. We stocked the cool pantry (it was handmade, like the chairs, and equally awesome) and began our first week in our home. On Sunday, as we are wont to do don’t you love that word, wont?) we went to church for several hours. Four hours, that day. Not all four of those were worship hours, but we were most definitely gone for four hours. Are you sensing that this was a long time? And that this detail may come back to bite us all? Good, then.

Lo, those many hours later, we pulled into the garage. And we smiled at the delight of having a garage. Because we were grateful that way. And then, something caught my eye.

Water.

On the garage floor.

Strange, I thought. How is this floor wet? Hmmm, I thought. It seems to be seeping in from the door over there. The door that leads from the hallway to the garage. The door into the house…

So Husband and I each unlatched a Kid from kidharness, and we walked to the door. Splashed to the door. Husband opened the door, and I looked up.

It is raining, I thought. Raining in my hallway. There was a great deal of water dripping from the ceiling. [1] Especially around the light-fixture area. I stood and stared, water splashing into the soaked carpet at my feet. Kid 2 squirmed out of my arms and began stomping in the puddles. The puddles that were inside our house. I kept staring at the dripping ceiling, because I’m good in a crisis.

Husband, even better in a crisis, ran upstairs to see the source of the water. (Yes. I married a genius. Left to my own devices, I would have stared at that ceiling until it fell on my head. More on that later.) He found that the hose connecting the toilet to the wall had come unconnected. You know this hose? The one that doesn’t actually turn off? The one through which a constant stream of high-pressure water flows, allowing the privileged to flush, whenever we feel so inclined? Yes? You know it? Well, there it was, stil screwed into the wall, but flailing like a firehose that nobody was holding on to, spraying jets of water all over the bathroom, including behind the room-length mirror [2].

In my memory, Husband stands in that bathroom ankle deep in water, handily turning off the water faucet thingie behind the toilet. In reality, I never went upstairs. I couldn’t. I was busy. Staring at the dripping ceiling.

I think he probably said something at that point. Something helpful, like Hey, I’ve got the water turned off. Maybe you could drag some furniture outside. Because I started dragging furniture outside. “Furniture” at this point in our marriage included (but was not quite limited to) a garage-sale papasan and those excellent kitchen chairs. So I took them out. And Husband assessed damage. And I started to sniffle. I also had the distinct impression that the girls should be outside. So I brought something toylike outside and stuck it in the papasan, and told them it was playtime, they were birds, and this was their nest. They bought it. How cute were they?

And so I stood there, having moved from the dripping hallway into the dripping family room, staring at the ceiling while Husband went to Kroger to rent one of those wet-vac things that a person kind of hopes never to have to rent. Also, thank you, Kroger, for being open on a Sunday. At least that Sunday. And as I stood there, watching water seep through the ceiling of our just-bought house, I thought, Okay. We’re good. We have a handle on this situation. [3]

Which was when the family room ceiling fell all over the family room.

Do you know what that sounds like? Three hundred square feet of soaking wet drywall (irony, anyone?) hitting soggy carpet?

Also, do you know how heavy that stuff is? I spun around (Yes. I spun. I was much younger then.) and saw my Kids, still chirping in the papasan, outside, away from danger of being crushed by the ceiling. I prayed my thanks, which may have been the only logical hing I was capable of that day, and started dragging drywall outside. May I mention again, wet drywall is heavy. Really heavy. Also, August in Indiana? It’s hot. And muggy. And humid. And I was wearing a dress.

I like to try to imagine Husband’s face when he returned home that day, giant red wet-vac in hand, from his unplanned trip to Kroger, to see the kids captured in the furniture outside and the ceiling on the floor. Because honestly, I can’t remember. Was he amused? Amazed that I had gotten the girls outside? Grumpy that any of this was happening? Wishing we’d lived there long enough to know… anyone who could come help us? Was he shaking his head? I can’t remember at all. I just kept dragging muddy chunks of drywall outside until the girls/baby birds needed a snack. [4]

The blurry next week included a fantastic homeowners’ insurance response, a very cute restoration team (no, really, they were very cute), a whole lot of fans blowing hot, humid air around our house and under our carpets, rewalling, repainting, re-ceiling-ing, and a visit from Husband’s whole family. All of which we survived. And in retrospect, it was an ordeal. But at the moment, in the whirl, the thing I remember most, the moment that caused the greatest twinge, was throwing away the 12-pack of Charmin Ultra that was pyramid-stacked under the sink. Oh, that nice, thick TP, wasted. It broke my heart a little.

A lot.

Things are clearer and funnier in retrospect, but at that moment, the Charmin was all I was really able to mourn.

Why do I tell you this story today? I don’t know. Irene aftermath? Emily’s floody toilet? (That’s it, really.) Amnesia prevention? (That, too.) I just want to say to all of you who have to do the big messy water-related cleanup, that it shall pass. The mess will go. The carpets will dry (mostly) and the really important things will still be right there, stuck in the papasan, eating grapes and pretzels and singing like baby birds.

—

[1] You may think “a great deal of water” and “dripping” don’t really go together. If this is the case, I congratulate you on your good luck. You have obviously never had water dripping from a ceiling in your home. Consider it a blessing.

[2] That was the longest bathroom we’ve ever had. Maybe 15 feet of mirror. It was a large, heavy mirror is what I’m saying.

[3] I may have a problem with denial. But probably not.

[4] I like to think I fed them gummy worms, but really? I didn’t buy junk food in those days. That was for Kids 3 and 4, apparently.

And here it is.

Once upon a time, we lived in Oklahoma. No, I am not making that up. We lived there for 51 weeks. And we loved everything, everything about it. Everything. (Except the job.) (And the weather.)

Oklahoma is a lovely, wonderful place. As long as you have air conditioning (check), a zoo pass (check) and a creek in your backyard (check). Oh, and friends with teenage kids so you can leave your small girls and go out to eat (check, again). Lots of eating in Oklahoma.

So this creek in our backyard was a source of constant adventure. It was a slow-moving, creeping sort of creek, just busy enough to make some noise, but not scary for the small children to explore. (I thought.) There was this huge, flat submerged stone that showed itself during a long, hot summer and became a perfect place to stand and discover wildlife. Which seemed like such a good idea.[1]

But guess what. Go ahead. Guess.

We didn’t have to stand in the creek to discover wildlife. Wildlife occasionally came to us. In the form of ducks. In the spring, when the redbud trees reminded us of all the reasons to live in Oklahoma (see above), ducks began hanging out on our back porch. Six or seven of them. And we’d feed them leftover pancakes. To the point of training them. No kidding. The ducks got so used to our leftover pancakes showing up on the back porch that they’d come knocking if the cakes weren’t there. Really. They’d come right up to the back kitchen door and peck on the glass with their duckish beaks.

“Hello?”

“Breakfast time, isn’t it?”

(Note: Ducks prefer pancakes to bagels. FYI.)

After breakfast, the ducks would get amorous. Oy. I know. Small children, welcome to the Circle of Life. [2]

Fast forward a few weeks, and only the green-headed boy ducks came for breakfast. What happened to the brown ones? the kids wanted to know. Oh, they’re nesting. Babies soon. Won’t that be fun?

Yes. Oh, yes.

Fast forward another couple of weeks. Babies. Oh, the cutest little yellow puffballs you’ve ever, ever seen. They breathed these little chirping sighs that would just make us insane with their cuteness. We’d sit beside the creek on our tri-leveled porch and watch them paddle by. The mamas and the daddies would take turns coming up to the door for breakfast. We delivered, these days. To all seven babies.

Wait. Six babies. And a few fewer adults.

No. Now five babies. And three adults.

Um, four?

Three babies? No adults? What’s going on here?

It really didn’t take that long for us to understand the Circle of Life playing out in our backyard. Some of those huge Oklahoma snakes were snacking on our babies. And possibly their parents. Vengeance was only a matter of time.

Husband, in a Herculean effort of Pet Rescue Bravery, borrowed a pool skimmer from the Gardening Neighbor. And we sat in wait for our remaining babies to float by.

Rather, make that Baby.

One lone baby.

Out came the skimmer. Into the creek went Husband. Into the skimmer went baby duckling[3]. Sort of screaming, I have to admit. It was one of those moments when we have to tell a smaller creature, “this is for your own good — trust me” but we feel bad anyway.

The internet (yes, it was around even then) had told us that baby ducks like cracked corn, wheat, and  oats. Um, okay. So I put some cornmeal, some oatmeal, and some whole wheat flour in a little pan. Then I put some creek water in another pan. Then I put both pans in a box. Then Husband put the baby duck inside, too. And we watched the baby duck whistle and peck and splash around in apparent relief. I can just see it from baby duck viewpoint: Two small human faces, peering over the edge of the box, two larger human faces, above the small ones. All smiling in a manic human manner. Stop looking at me, humans, and bring more cornmeal.

Everyone knows that a baby duck needs a name. So, Husband named our duck. Mabel Huntington. Do not ask me why. I cannot tell you. [4]

Everyone also knows that a baby duck needs a teddy bear. So, Husband bought Mabel a bear.

Wait. We didn’t know that? Well, the marketing department at PetCo saw Husband coming, then. There was a huge sign. Huge. It said, and I quote, “Birds Love To Snuggle!” Below which was a display of dozens of tiny teddy bears. Husband picked the cutest one, by far.

And brought it to Mabel.

Who adored that bear. And I am being so completely sincere. Even though I may have raised my eyebrows way up high in wonder that someone IN THE ADVERTISING PROFESSION could get snookered by an advertisement for something so unnecessary, he was right. Mabel snuggled up to the teddy and sacked out. With his/her fluffy little yellow head in the bear’s lap. Oh, heck. It was the cutest thing you’ve ever seen, duck-and-bearly speaking.

After a few days, we determined that, although we were pretty attached to the duck (and teddy bear) living in a box in our garage, there was probably a better way to raise this sweet thing. So we made some phone calls. To some of the nicest Oklahomans in the state. Finally, a wildlife rescue place agreed to meet Mabel. I drove her there, her box in the front seat of the Honda, kids safely belted into carseats in the back. The nice wildlife people told me that they’d be happy to do any kind of rehabilitation that Mabel might need and then help him/her to find his/her freedom. That many of the rehabbed ducks would choose to make a permanent home in the pond on the premises. I explained that she wasn’t hurt, exactly, just in mortal danger from the snakes and turtles that were making a habit of snacking on baby ducks in our backyard. Then I explained about the teddy bear.

Silence. Lots of it.

Then a slow nod. Riiiiight, lady. The duck loves the bear. Riiiiiiiiiiiiiight.

I walked back to the car, watching over my shoulder as the brown-clad wildlife rescue worker hitched box over hip and walked away, toward Mabel’s future.

(Dramatic Pause Here)

After a few weeks, we took the Kids to the “museum” on the property of the wildlife rescue people. It smelled of taxidermy and dust. Many stuffed snakes. And live ones. But what I most remember was the possum. Oh, holy mercy. It was placed on top of a glass snake cage (which I’m sure has some manner of technical name ending in -arium, but I don’t care) so that it was, as I turned around, face to face with me. The possum reminded me of all the reasons I won’t ever have a possum for a pet. That, my friends, is a frightening creature. It was white with pink beady glass eyes, which, on its own is scary enough. Because it looked like a hugely overgrown lab rat. But the teeth. Oh, the teeth. There were a million of them. A million, at least.  Sharp ones. Its mouth was open, displaying all the fang-ed wonder. I suppressed both the cries and the gag reflex and shepherded my children out of the room.

We found a brown-clad rescue worker, who laughed when we mentioned Mabel the Duck.

“I remember you,” he said.

(Strangely for me, I couldn’t say the same.)

“Folks, when you brought the duck here that day, I wondered if you were crazy, what with you fixin’ to leave the duck with a toy.” (People in Oklahoma love the word “fixin’” — trust me on this one.) “But you were right. That duck still sleeps with the teddy bear snuggled up right next to her.” (She was a her. Apparently.)

Husbandly Vindication.

We asked to see Mabel. He brought her out. She was at least twice the size of the teddy bear now, and brown and awkward and lumpy.

Gorgeous, I mean.

The Kids couldn’t believe this was the same duck. Then the worker showed us the bed. With the teddy bear inside. The bear that Husband had known, KNOWN would make the duck safe and happy. This little bear was loved up. Nips out of his ears, covered in… something aromatic, matted and completely adored. For a guy who doesn’t like animals, my Husband sure knows how to take care of an accidental pet.

—

[1] Did you know that snakes live in Oklahoma? They do. And pretty much every single poisonous snake in the northern hemisphere wants to live in Oklahoma. They’ve never, ever read “Grapes of Wrath” apparently.

[2] I may have been heard to open the door and hiss at those amorous ducks, “Hey, there are little kids around here. Take it under the bleachers, why don’t you?”

[3] Telling it this way, it sounds a lot less… wet than I remember it.

[4] Just kidding. Of course I can tell you. Mabel Huntington lives upstairs from Mr. Kreuger and complains that her pipes don’t bring her heat, or water, or something. Mr. Kreuger is convinced that she’s lying for attention. We (heart) Jimmy Stewart.

You know that feeling, the one that you catch a glimpse of yourself in a photo or the mirror or the car window and you gasp and go, “Holy stink, when did I get so old?” The answer is Today. (For me. Not for you. You are not old. Unless you want to be. Which is great with me. Getting older is Some Kind of Blessing, as it certainly beats the alternative.)

Do you want to know what I’ve done in preparation for today? Let’s check my list, shall we?

1. Lose 20 pounds (which would have put me below what I weighed in HS): Nope. Didn’t happen.

2. Get a tan: Nope. Didn’t happen. But I have a good excuse.

3. Buy a cute sundress: Sort of. I have a dress. I bought it months ago, and it’s my standard wear-it-when-I-need-color. But it’s not really new. Nor does it appear, when I wear it, that I managed to accomplish #1. Alas. But it is very bright and pretty. And comfy. Which matters most to me (and says plenty about my crimes of fashion over the length of my life.)

4. Buy great shoes: Nope. How about the comfy 3-year-old sandals? Check.

5. Shave legs: Does yesterday count?

6. Pedicure: I’m counting it. I did it myself, but really, will anyone get THAT close? Let’s hope not.

But despite my utter lack of apparent motivation, I have to say, I’m glad to be going. I loved so many people that I knew in High School. And yes. I know that I use the word “love” easily, but that doesn’t make it any less true. I only went to this high school for a year and a half. But I spread my little heart all over that place. And it came right back to me. As much as there have been days and days over the past few months that I thought “Why in the world would I want to go back to high school?” — this is it: The people I knew there were extremely generous spirits. Even at seventeen, these people cared deeply about things that still matter.

I’m not saying they didn’t also care deeply about that Kevin Bacon movie “Tremors,” I’m just saying they were also capable of sincere, deep love. For each other.

And for a small window of my life, I was one of them.

So off I go, to the Family Picnic part of the party, to smile a lot, to squint out of the corner of my eye at nametags, to solidify my sincere hope that these good kids turned into happy, fulfilled adults. To reconnect. To laugh at memories and to gasp at the wonder that is Right Now.

So, awesome. Natch.

We (we, right?) signed me up for 3 Honors classes and one upper-level Spanish class (which I got out of within the week because although I understood it all, I couldn’t speak nearly as well as everyone else in the class, who all managed to have lived for at least 18 months in a spanish-speaking country – alas, I should have stayed). I had tested out of freshman English (don’t be too surprised) so I ended up in a 200-level honors English class. Which was awesome, if by awesome you mean awesome. My professor, whose name I can’t remember (but don’t worry, she doesn’t remember me either) took us to see films at the sticky-floored Scera theatre. She brought us to her home once. She read our good papers out loud and offered kind comments. Once she read one of mine. I glowed for days. That was a good experience. It made me want to be a teacher. Or a university professor. Or at least hang out with other people who loved words and films and popcorn.

(Which I do.)

At the end of that Freshman year, I waved goodbye to my scholarship and learned to choose my own classes. And to limit the number of Honors classes to two. Or maybe one. And to not do homework on Sunday, which leads to strange matters of time-space continuation in which there is enough time during the week to get it all in. And I learned to lighten up, academically speaking. Undergrad university is a long 4 years. Sometimes much, much longer. You don’t have to stuff it all in at once. Because among all the learnings and stretchings, there should be some fun parts.

Which leads me to my point. I helped Kid 2 choose her schedule yesterday. The schedule for her freshman year in high school. And I pointed out the seriously awesome options of AP this and Honors that, and then I said, “But you know, high school is a long 4 years. I hope you can be happy to spread it around a little. Have some fun. Give yourself time to play.” (I meant play the violin, but she heard what she wanted to hear.) And she chose some Honors. And some art. And some music. And some drama. (I know.) And there will be time to fit it all in.

Even the fun parts.

—

And now, because you just NEED it, today’s Haiku.

Toast

Wheat, homemade, buttered.
Crunchy out, chewy inside,
You make me happy.

I know. Stunning, right?

Wow. You probably weren’t planning to see THAT this morning. But here it is – a page out of my long-repressed history.

I have an uncle – a really wonderful one – who is an historian. (He’d have me put the “an” in there, I bet. So I did.) He is a pro family history guy. And he sent me the remarkable photo you see before you. And I swore. (Not like that.) I mean, I promised. That I will never, never tease a kid about her glasses (can you see the fine, fine rose decal in the corner? I remember pondering over the merits of rose vs. ladybug in the eye doctor’s sitting room, but somehow I never pondered the ill-advised glasses frames). And I will lay off my Kids about their hair issues, because, honestly? Has any Kid in my house ever had hair issues like these? I think not. The clip? I made that with my mom. I remember her patience in teaching me to weave that skinny ribbon through the bendy clip (the only kind that would stay in the aforementioned skinny hair). There were matching plastic beads on the ends of those ribbons. They made clicking sounds every time (Every Time) I tossed my head. Those teeth somehow pulled through, and I never needed orthodontia (blessing, that). And can you see my birthmark? It’s much harder to see these days. In the photo, it’s on the right side of my neck, kind of below that adorable cheek curl (because I can admit, those were some great smile lines and perfect, sweet cheeks). The birthmark that seriously marked me, in physical and emotional ways. Because, hey! Look! It’s a HICKEY!

Which of course it was not.

Ever.

But it didn’t stop people from double-taking. I remember being a small person, 7 years old (I only remember that detail because I know I was in D’Agostino’s deli in my Boston neighborhood, and I only lived there for that second grade year) and having a woman stare, leaning over to make sure she was really seeing a little girl with a great big hickey on her neck. I smiled at her. She looked horrified.

I dealt with it.

And everyone wore turtlenecks in the 80s.

It became a different story in high school. T. D. who was a senior when I was a freshman, called me Hickey Woman (which was a combination of thrilling and embarrassing, since he bore a passing resemblance to Tom Cruise, and was the star of the football team, and noticed my existence enough to use the word “woman” to describe me… but also, “hickey”). Then, a few years later, in a different state but still in the world of high school, I was sort of dating R. We had fun. He was hilarious and carefree and charming and had a whole houseful of adorable younger brothers that looked just like him. Then I met his mom. She took one look at my neck and decided that I was a WOB* who was corrupting her son, and he’d better get out of this thing if he wanted a roof over his head and access to the thrashed black VW Bug. To defend both his honor and mine, I feel compelled to tell you that R. never even kissed me, much less… well, anything else. And our dating thing didn’t last many more days (but we’re still Christmas-card friends).

The birthmark continues to fade. Most people can’t even see it. (They’re distracted by my stunning, straight teeth. I know it.) But strangely, I still feel like the birth-marked girl. It’s become part of my identity and that is just weird. Because it’s not really physically there anymore. At least to the casual observer. I’m sure there’s a deep insight floating here, something that ties this post into building a character in a novel. But I’m not interested in depth today. Just interested in strolling down memory (amnesia) lane with the rest of the photos I received from the Historian Uncle.

And possibly doing my hair.

* WOB = Whore of Babylon. I know. It’s another Brother Thing.

So once upon a middle-school time, I lurved a boy. He lived in a different state, but we ran in some similar religious circles, so I could plan on seeing him once or twice a month. I may have been a bit of a stalker. He was blond and tall and in perpetual need of a haircut. His parents owned and operated a lovely bakery, where the workers wore pins on their aprons that said “Check out our buns.” I don’t know if that part is verifiably accurate, but it’s been reported enough times to be historically true to me.

During this same time, I had a little Bon Jovi fixation. Big poster. On the wall. With the larger-than-life face, the torn purple jacket, the peroxide-highlighted Hair-Band locks. (Jon, not me.)

Don’t judge.

(My poor Mom.)

So one fine day, in order to entertain himself, my brother rewrote all the songs on Bon Jovi’s smash-hit album “Slippery When Wet” (Oh, my goodness – I know. Please don’t judge.) to reflect my crush on Bakery Boy.

Here’s what I remember.

“You Give Bakeries A Bad Name.” ~ “Let it Cook, Let it Cool.” ~ “Livin’ on an Eclair.” ~ “Bread is a Social Disease.” ~ “Wanted, Frosted or Not.” ~ “Wash Your Hands.” ~ “Never Say Dessert.” ~ “I’d Bake for You.”

(If you are one of those character-laden people who doesn’t get any of that, look it up on iTunes. It’s pretty good, what he could do.)

Another time, years later, this same brother phoned me from college on September 15th. Awww. How cute. He missed me already. He played a song over the phone. Want to guess which one? Okay, then. I’ll tell you. The Smiths’ “Unhappy Birthday.” Need lyrics? Here you go. “I called to wish you an unhappy birthday, because you’re evil, and you lie. And if you should die, I may feel slightly sad, but I won’t cry.” (Which is actually a great song on an album of equally great songs, including the classic “Girlfriend in a Coma.”)

He continues to be un-fair-ly funny. He got all the comedy genes AND all the thick-hair genes. Plus, he’s 6’2″. Also his wife, who is brilliant and fabulous, completely buries me in the comedy department.

I just thought I’d share.

Many years ago, my little family moved to Indianapolis. That is in Indiana. See, there’s a clue in the name. (So many times, people asked if Indianapolis was in Minnesota. How funny. Ha. Or sad.) So there we were, in our “new” house for the first week. It was a cute house, on a lot with HUGE trees in the back yard (one of the best reasons to live in Indiana – that and the fireflies). Then – it was the next Sunday – we went to church. As we usually do. This is a good practice, either in Indiana or elsewhere. We were gone for a little more than four hours, all told. When we came home, two tired adults, two hungry toddlers, we saw something strange.  There was water on the garage floor. Near the door leading to the house. I know, right? Weird.

The we walked inside, and ha-ha, it was raining from the light fixture in the ceiling. No kidding. Awesomeness. So Husband ran upstairs (*splash, splat, splash*) and found that little hose? The one that connects the toilet to the wall? Was unconnected. And spraying gallons of water all over the upstairs master bathroom. Including behind the HUGE (10-foot long) mirror that thankfully was anchored to the wall studs, not the now-wet-tissue consistency drywall. The hose was, in my memory, writhing around, whipping jets of water hither and yon. (It may be important to note that I didn’t actually go upstairs and see the water show. It’s just in my memory anyway.)

So Husband turned the water off. (There’s a sort of faucet right there on the wall behind the toilet, just in case this ever happens to you and you need to locate it. Turn to the left. You’re welcome.) He went to the grocery store to rent a wet vac. (Cheers for Indiana, where there is at least a Kroger grocery store open on Sundays.) To save the upholstery, I started moving furniture out to the back yard. See, the ceiling was dripping here and there. On a whim, I moved my small Kid 1 and my smaller Kid 2 out to the back yard, too. I put them on the now-outside couch with a snack and a book. I believe that was two minutes before the family room ceiling, now weighing something in the neighborhood of thirty thousand pounds, came schlumping to the living room floor.

It was pure awesome. No kidding. I was standing in the doorway that led to the back yard, and managed not to utter any bad words. Then I put on my game face and started lugging chunks of wet drywall outside.

This kind of thing, the lugging and the restraining-from-cursing, lasted the better part of a week, during which time we recognized the serious blessing of good (comprehensive and local) homeowner’s insurance. And we had the greatest two Horsemen of the Apocalypse (the Flood and Fire guys) doing all manner of restoration, fanning, drywalling, painting, and carpet repair. Small Kid 2, who had a serious fascination with workmen of all kinds – she stood in the front-room window seat every Tuesday and cheered for the garbage man – was in almost-two-year-old heaven.

We moved a little more than a year later. The move had nothing to do with the possible lingering smell.

(That was a joke, in case anyone who moved in to that house subsequently happens to be reading.)

I just thought you might like to take a little stroll down memory lane with me.

Good times.