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Cold but severe clear weather today here at the lake. Our journey and arrival were not without excitement, of course, me being me, and having the famous Phelps luck. After we loaded the Tahoe to the point of suspension-creak, we started it up and got a light on the dash that said the transfer case was in Neutral. I pushed the button to put it back in 2-WD. No joy. Pulled out the operator's manual. Transfer case not in index, but for transmission see p. 2-26. There it said not to put the transfer case in Neutral unless the parking brake is engaged because Park won't work if transfer case in Neutral. Fair enough. See page 3-32 for how to put transfer case in Neutral. Presumably this would give the lay reader an indication of how to take it out of Neutral, too. Page 3-32 explained that R stands for Reverse, and should be used when backing up the vehicle is desired. It went on to explain the uses of the other gears, and what 2WD, and HI, LO and On-Demand 4WD were good for, and said that for information on putting the transfer case in Neutral, see, you guessed it, page 2-26. Drove to All-Trans transmission, where they put it on the computer and the lift and discovered that there's a slightly leaky seal on the back of the transfer case; they didn't have and couldn't find a new seal, but filled the fluid back up and blessed our trip up here and back, and said they'd fix it on Tuesday. By now it was 11:30 a.m., not the 8:00 a.m. start we'd planned, but what the hell. With stops for supplies and such we got here at around 4:30 p.m.
I scouted for mice -- dead or alive, mice must removed from any premises to be occupied by The Lovely Former Ada Santiago of Ponce, Puerto Rico, so it shall be written, so it shall be done. No mice. Turned on the heat, the refrigerator; closed the faucets and the petcock on the water heater, and flipped the circuit breaker for the water pump, which fired up nicely and all hell broke loose. With a loud bang gallons of very cold lake water began spraying all over the basement through the very suddenly separated joint where the in-flow pipe meets the overhead water filter. Frantic expletives ensued, but I got the breaker open again. I am no kind of plumber. I got out my pipe wrenches and vise-grips and such and determined that even with all that weaponry, there was no effing way I was going to do anything about this. Called a local licensed plumbing and heating purveyor. Contract killers work cheaper than these guys, but they are very pleasant, very efficient, very professional, very effective, and very willing to work on Good Friday evening (for overtime rates, they cautioned) -- unlike any of the three jack-leg plumbers I know up here, who work very cheap, but none of whom was to be found.
Plumber Pat asked my permission to finish his dinner before driving up the mountain to us, which I very magnanimously granted. I mean, what the hell. That's me all over, magnanimous. When he came he showed me the flaw in the installation that had led to this catastrophic failure (too much tension on the joint); he added a new section, using the new plastic pipe that apparently installs with a butter knife and seals with a cheerful thought (I have GOT to learn how to use that stuff), and we turned on the system. "I hear water," said Pat, and it was true. Pressure had blown yet another joint, this one at the back of the basement, but thankfully just this side of where the pipes enter the crawlspace under the kitchen, said crawlspace being not much more than 18 inches of almost inaccessible dismal, dark, and filth. This new break needed to be re-soldered, but Pat made short work of it, and left whistling. The office will send me a bill, which is probably a much safer system for the on-site mechanics, who might be in danger from suddenly penniless customers presented with bills, and therefore with nothing left to lose.
Anyway, as I say, today is beautiful, though chilly. Ada forgot her camera at home but I used the Flip Mino to document the ice remaining at the edges in our little inlet. Only random minor piles of snow are left in the woods, in shady spots. Otherwise we're right on the verge of Mud, which is the season that passes for Spring up here. Soon it will be black-fly time, and warm enough to get back to work screening in the porch against the black flies, who will probably be more vicious than ever this year because they'll sense that the screening-in in progress is directed against them, and they will be hurt, and feel the need to lash out. In the meantime I just saw a couple of little patches of ice being blown down the lake by today's brisk t'gallants'l breezes, and I shouted, "Icebergs!" and ran out to FlipMino them, much to Ada's startlement, and now I'm back inside writing to you, Dear Reader, while continuing to murder, by hand-held vacuum cleaner, the spontaneously regenerating lady bugs who are popping into existence at the rate of approximately 8.4 per hour at the sunny window next to my computer. I expect that the pain in my wounded shoulder, which pain has been exacerbated by earlier today moving the canoe and kayaks off the shelter of the porch, where they had spent the winter, will abate with the liberal application of Labatt's Blue, which commences now. Stand clear of that refrigerator. I have just decided to take my retirement in installments, a day at a time whenever the opportunity arises, like Travis McGee, in case these are the only retirement days I ever get, and so for the rest of today, I am retired. Bottoms up.
