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http:// --> Ashland, Oregon HOME Valley & State Sports Nation & World Opinion/Editorial Classifieds Business Columnists Local Issues Obituaries Weather Archive Revels Etcetera Backpage Hot Topics Most Viewed Forum Photo Galleries Video Readers Polls O-Zone Online Games Movie Preview Special Sections Real Estate Guide Menu Guide Shakespeare Subscribe Contact Us Rate Card Place an Ad Featured Galleries: March 8, 2007 Gushing to go By Lance Pugh Tidings Correspondent Lance Pugh Archives Thursday January 18th Thursday February 1st Thursday February 15th Thursday February 22nd Thursday March 1st Thursday March 8th I did not see it coming. I usually perform optimally when I keep my schedule full, laying out errands, meetings and other tasks in a seemingly Gordian knot of complexity. This serves to create an artificial pressure to perform that ignites the adrenalin boiler and lends focus to the undertakings. The other day was no exception. I had spent half the day flailing at my keyboard, clicking my way around the Web, working the phones, twisting in a vortex of emails both sent and received, all while slapping down spam, hobbling Trojan horses and listening to Jefferson Public Radio. I entered the kitchen at precisely two p.m., freshly showered, shaved, coiffed and smartly dressed, ready to launch myself about town as indicated by my well-organized list. Just as I began my march to the front door I remembered to press the start button on the dishwashing machine, a final parting touch before I roared into gear. I am usually pretty adept at spotting problems so when I heard an explosion under the sink I immediately knew that trouble had boarded my ship like a peg-legged pirate in search of a treasure chest overflowing with pandemonium. Not wanting to mar the creases in my just pressed slacks, I bent over and opened the doors that concealed my under-sink stockpile of household cleaners, toxic tonics, sponges and abrasives. I immediately came face to face with a torrent of hot water that emanated from the end of a flexible feed line, which had waited silently for years for this moment of emancipation. I was instantly, though temporarily, blinded by this plumbing python, which also served to froth my brow with a decade of spills, dust and neglect. I fell to my knees and began a detailed Braille search for anything that felt like a shut-off valve. In short order I found and strangle three, but the water kept hosing down my every movement, keen to keep me away from the bubbling den of disuse. Fearing the worst, I sloshed through the kitchen and to the front porch, where I was very pleased to find a previously sequestered water key for the meter vault. Leaving a trail that clearly resembled that of a slug; I hustled to the water meter and, after getting a screwdriver from the car, popped the metal-hinged cover for a peek at salvation. What I saw, or rather didn't see, caused me to sweat like a fire hydrant at task. I had not seen the shut-off valve at the meter for nearly two decades and, by the looks of the accumulated tree roots, mud and other mysterious debris, I would not be seeing it anytime soon. I focused on the barking of my dog, Spooky, which assured me that the tumult was still in full swing in the kitchen. I reached down into the pit and began to wrestle with the muck, managing to stove my thumb, break three fingernails and cut my hand within seconds. Usually I'll wave at a neighbor or a passing car as I exit my gate, but with my ear near the ground and my arm grappling with the unseen, something bent time and space"¦ allowing bumper-to-bumper cars and a packed sidewalk of rubberneckers to inch by my underground struggle. I tried to smile and waive with my eyebrows, as one arm kept me from falling to the grass while the other was earning points towards a visit to the doctor's office. After about fifteen minutes I finally located the valve with the water key and gave it a hefty twist to no avail. I torqued the key to the point of breaking, then slopped back into the house to have a showdown with the hose down. Ripping through the boxes, bottles, cans, cartons and buckets I felt a fourth valve and twisted it shut. I hopped out to the storage shed and soon found the wet/dry shop vacuum that I used to suck the inches of water up from the kitchen floor. I probably should have removed the vacuum bag before attacking the in-house pond, but that is another story. Thirty minutes later the water was gone, leaving only muddy footprints throughout the house to memorialize the event. Just then the front door flew open and my wife, Annette, bounced a question off the walls: "What have you been up to?" I tried to think of a clever response, but resigned myself to: "My elbow." Lance was last seen speed dialing plumbers while Spooky kept an eye on the garden hose. You may saturate Lance with questions about "Essentially Ashland"¦The Missing Years" at [email protected]. Current Comments: Please,whoever sets these disasters in motion stay away from my door! Frank Hill - Ashland - March 10th, 10:10 AM Leave a Comment: Advertisement: Advertisement: Paid Advertising: Debt Help Inkjet Printers Payday Loans Free Ringtones Debt Consolidation Security Systems Debt Relief New Hampshire Primary Advertisement: Copyright © 2007 Ashland Daily Tidings and Ottaway Newspapers. All Rights Reserved. Del.icio.us