In honor of Labor Day, a post about our plumber. Thanks, Jesse, for all the plumbing emergencies you’ve expertly resolved for us.
Recently Jesse made a house call. Clogged up plumbing line.
The visit brought back memories of another time Jesse paid a house call and then stood in the same spot in our yard.
Jump back with me twenty-plus years.
That clog was a bad one. Water, the yucky kind, poured into the powder room.
Jesse dug for about an hour. Then he summoned me to the backyard. He poked a brown boot at a huge wad. “Mrs. Younger, these things can’t go down your commode. Not with the old pipes we’ve got in town.”
“Those things,” were, you guessed it, tampons. Mortification struck my thirty-something soul. “Got it,” was all I could say.
Jump back to now.
This time, the problem was the town’s fault. Yes! Something screwy in their part of the sewage line.
But no matter what, it couldn’t have been tampons. Not in this household. Not anymore.
Score One for menopause.
PS: Get your plumber talking! Jesse can entertain for hours. His stories aren’t so much about the actual plumbing but the crazy ways people screw up their plumbing. Wowzer.