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| A new tank, but what about the dryer? |
Last Friday, my water tank died.
I live in the mountains,, Bear Rocks, Penna., specifically. The iron, silt and funky stuff clogs my water. I have well water and requisite septic tank. Thank God for Culligan. The tank lasted five or six years and I have no prayer for a warranty. Welcome to Bear Rocks water.
Lenhart’s Plumbing stands at the ready from any emergency, say, defunct water tank. I called Ella, fifty-ish, jotting every detail and explained the situation; yes, I have sopping wet water from the tank. Many towels later, Tim and Randy showed up in the afternoon. Burly guys, strong guys from the booming metropolis of Stahlstown next door. It’s a hamlet. Like I said, I love the mountains, everybody knows your name.
Nine-hundred square feet, I have a pint-sized house and a crawl-space. I have living room, dining room, den, a bedroom and an office, bathroom and half-bath-laundry room/hot water tank and Culligan. I have a minuscule kitchen. The center of the floor, I can easily touch the fridge, the stove and the sink. I’m considering an apartment-sized dishwasher.
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| The formidable dryer. |
Tim and Randy lifted the dryer to the door and view the tank. Their, an accordion plastic tube filled with lint, debris, bits of thread and jammed full of the personal effects of birds. The morbid effects of bird eggs is long gone. Randy emptied the accordion. Birds; not mice. I felt bad.
Six months ago, I called Jeff, my son, and said “Something is wrong with the dryer. The clothes are wet. Something is squirrelly.” Maybe the mice are scratching about? I bought a dryer 18 months ago. Also, I had a monumental stroke 13 years ago.
Jeff moved the dryer, inspected it, never looked for a plastic-thing hook-up for the dryer and wall. “It’s fine.”
Clearly, is not fine. I have screaming wet clothes. Note to myself: Jeffrey is all thumbs. Handyman he’s not. He left.
I went to the garage and the crawl-space over the laundry room, armed with warfarin rat-poison and waited. I hobbled with a cane, careful of the teen-tiny opening. In the garage, there’s a screen on the opening. I placed the D-con. I after the stroke, my right side is paralyzed. The left side takes work, specifically, my left arm. I’m tenacious.
I had visions of wire-chewed remnants, gleefully munching mice. I worry about babies. A mouse produces 300 hundred infants nesting in my house. This is my house. Ten days later, all is quiet. The mouse-babies are no more. I felt uneasy, writhing in mouse-blood. Warfarin thins the blood. I hope it’s quick. I still have wet clothes, however. http://animals.pawnation.com/many-babies-pet-mice-have-1284.html
Six months later, it’s not mice, it’s the birds. I enjoy birding. I filled up the sunflower seeds, suet cakes and clean fresh water. In the morning, early, the pileated woodpecker makes a cackling laugh, and it’s the largest bird in North America. I like the bluejays, the cardinal and the titmouse (no pun intended). http://www.firehow.com/component/option,com_articleman/id,13775/task,editart/
Randy vacated the tube out in the woods, hooked the dryer up and a shiny new tank appeared.
Maybe a small screen outdoors for the dryer vent. It’s always something.
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A pileated woodpecker.
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