They call me: Roja Verde. The Red Green of the Southwest. I swear – if it weren't for my astounding ability to break things, I'd never learn to fix anything.
Crandall's are due to show up any day. I'm pretty excited about that. I've been here for the last month and a half kicking around without the neighborhood gang. While I am perfectly content living the life of a desert hermit – I do appreciate the folks that come in for the winter season.
I know how hard it is to travel over a thousand miles with horses, dogs and all the crap it takes to survive as a snowbird. You manage to pull into your destination after hundreds of miles of mishaps and trials only to realize your journey has just begun. Where do I put the horses while I ready the stalls?Where did I put those water buckets? Lord – I pray that damn cantankerous well is still pumping!
Not my neighbors. Not on my watch. I could make their arrival much smoother. My intentions were good. What is it they say about the best intentions?
I hopped on Miss Kitty and tractored on over to the Crandall's with a whole barrel full of those good intentions. All the while humming my version of “I think my tractors sexy...”
I believe they have six horses...I can prepare 5 of the 6 stalls. The 6th stall contains a tractor I won't be able to move without a key. One of the stalls is used as storage for a plethora of outdoor items...water buckets, water troughs – 55 gallon arena barrels and yard art. No problem. I know where most of these items go.
I neatly arranged the garbage cans in their proper place. This big trough goes to the steer pen and these other two big ones I'll place in the turnouts. They will be short one pen for the 6th horse, so I filled a water trough in the arena so they'd have a place to keep a horse until the tractor is moved.
My biggest concern was the big ceramic flower pots Cindy has meticulously collected. I gently placed them in the bucket of Miss Kitty for transport to the yard. I put her in low gear and crept along as the fragile pots teetered precariously. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. I considered taking them out and transporting them one by one. It wasn't too far of a trip and if I did break one ...or two...or all of them...a quick trip to the pottery place and I could have them replaced and no-one the wiser.
My heart swelled with a bit of pride, and relief, as I gently placed the last vibrantly painted pot securely inside the yard. I was quite please with myself as I leapt back into the tractor seat for the remaining items in the pen. Three 55 gallon plastic drums we use as barrels for shooting practice.
I placed the first barrel in the bucket and transported it to the arena. That was easy enough. I might as well take the last two in one trip. I placed both barrels vertically in the bucket and climbed aboard. I raised the bucket high enough for proper balancing of the barrels. They are plastic – it won't hurt them if they do fall out.
With the barrels upright in the bucket and the bucket raised – I could only see under the bucket on each side. No biggie. A mule can't see directly in front of their nose either and they manage just fine. I crept along slowly, balancing the barrels as I went. Suddenly, one barrel upended onto the ground. I stepped off the tractor to put it back in the bucket and out of nowhere it started to rain. A lot. That's odd. There isn't a cloud in the sky. We do have some strange weather here in Arizona.
Before my foot hit the ground it became evident the water wasn't falling from the sky – it was shooting up from the ground beneath Miss Kitty's bucket. I wonder if Crandall's know they've been sitting on a geyser all these years!? It was then my Roja Verde brain kicked in to gear. This weren't no artesian! I'd plumb run over the Crandall's RV hookup.
I could not have aimed better if I'd been trying...I lined that puppy dead center of the two 55 gallon barrels...precisely where I could not see. If I could apply that aim to my mounted shooting skills I'd be a level six by the end of the year.
A geyser to put Old Faithful to shame shot straight up as I backed Miss Kitty off the broken stand pipe. I ran to the well and shut off the water and the power. It was embarrassing enough...it simply wouldn't do to have Crandall's find my dead, electrocuted body laying in the way of their living quarters parking area.
I dug up the muddy mess to examine the damage. The galvanized stand pipe was sheered off flush with the fitting. I can fix this. All I need to do is get that thread out of the fitting – put in a new stand pipe, screw on the valve and the Crandall's will never know what hit them...or rather hit their stand pipe thingy.
They make a tool to back out broken pipe thread. I've seen them. I'm pretty sure I have one. I did not. My other choice was to cut out the entire section of fittings and put everything in new. I stared into the hole formerly known as Crandall's stand pipe. My heart might have stopped for a second. Weird configurations of PVC and galvanized fittings, splicers, couplings and reducers went every which direction. Well...this isn't good. If I delve into this, I'm going to make matters worse before they get better. Don't fix what ain't broke. Crandall's are likely to be home in the morning. I considered leaving a note and making a run for the border. “Dear Dave and Cindy – No need to thank me. I've cleaned out the stalls and filled the troughs so the horses all have water. You, on the other hand....don't have any water. Welcome back!”
That thread was coming out come hell or high water...no pun intended. I threw Groot (literally) into the truck. That dog can climb on the bed, on the couch and even manage to climb on my kitchen table...but he cannot figure out how to jump in the truck. Hank refused to consider going along. He had that look...”This ain't my first rodeo with this goofy damn woman. I'm staying home and taking a nap. Wake me when you get yourself out of whatever mess you got yourself into. Groot and I headed for Adolfo's. Adolfo's will have the tool! Adolfo has everything! Everything except a damn pipe back-er-outer-er thing-a-ma-jig.
We were off to Do it Best in Wickenburg. I know this tool exists. But what if it doesn't? I cannot have these people drive a thousand miles to find they have no water and a big ass muddy mess to boot. Failure was not an option.
The nice man at Do it Best found the tool I needed but he didn't think it was big enough. I was pretty sure it was. He tried to talk me out of it. I asked for a small piece of ¾ inch pipe...he acted like I was nuts and mumbled something about what good was another section of pipe going to do me if I couldn't get the thread out. I grabbed the pipe – ripped open the package and verified the tool would work. We were both thrilled. Well, I was thrilled. He was more dumbfounded I'd just ripped open a package I'd not yet paid for.
I'd need a new stand pipe...he asked how tall. I placed my hand at my hip and said...about this tall! He handed me a three feet section of pipe, asked if I had pipe thread and bade me good luck. I threw some cash at the clerk and ran out the door. It would be dark soon. I was running out of time.
Back at the hole formerly known as Crandall's stand pipe – I held my breath and went to work. The de-threading tool (I still have no idea what this thing is called) did it's magic and easily backed out the broken piece of threaded pipe. A little pipe thread on the new stand pipe threads and valve from the old pipe and Voila! . Good as new. We've done it Groot! Groot? Apparently Groot is taking notes from Hank and left me to my own demise. Faithless canines.
Crandall's would never know. Or would they? Sure – I could take off the stickers from the new pipe and rough it up a bit. Make it look old....I couldn't do it. What if the hole damn thing springs a leak and by morning instead of the RV hook-up there's a Lake Prickly Paw! I'd have to call Dave and fess up.
I really didn't want to call Dave. I'm pretty sure they are regretting the day I showed up on their doorstep and never left. “Um..Hi Dave! Oh...you guys are on your way? You'll be here by morning? So...about that. It's like this....” I explained how I was trying to help...blah blah blah...”and all of a sudden the stand pipe jumps in front of Miss Kitty. I swear, it's like that thing was trying to commit suicide or something!”
Dave let me finish my nervous rambling account of the situation. “Well, young lady – sounds like you've been busy. You didn't have to do that.” I'm fairly certain he meant I didn't have to try and help...and not: No really...you don't have to do that...in fact, please stop trying to do that...or trying to do anything at all! Just stay away from anything and everything you might break or otherwise screw up!”
After much to-do, we agreed to leave the hole now formally known as Crandall's new and improved stand pipe...uncovered. Just in case. I'll check it in the morning for leaks and pray earnestly that we don't wake to Lake Prickly Paw.
As I type this – I am reminded of a line from Franco Zeffirelli's adaptation of Romeo and Juliet. “The best intentions pave the way to Hell.” Sure feels like that sometimes, Franco.
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