Nobody Reads This Page – “Water Woes”

 

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

Purchasing a mobile home for the first time, at the age of 40, was an experience that filled me with dread on many levels. I worried about the community in which it was situated, and about maintaining such a prefabricated structure. I reckoned that the life expectancy would not be equal to a fixed dwelling, with a proper foundation. And I wondered how it would affect my image, socially. In the midst of a management career, I had decided to create a start-up business of my own. Specifically, an independent firm for consulting and promotions, operated on a tiny footprint. I had cards printed, and recorded a telephone message that could screen calls while I was away.

 

But being stuck in a row of boxcar homes made me think that I would be judged harshly, by virtue of this seedy relocation. The reality caused me to shiver as I searched for ideas. I knew that it would not mesh well with my new plan for success. At that difficult moment however, I was desperate. So, I closed my eyes tightly and signed the required paperwork for a trailer, in Thompson Township, Ohio.

 

What I did not know at that distant point in my journey, was that sourcing potable water would actually be more of a challenge to this new lifestyle, than anything else. Signing up for the delivery of electric power, finding fuel for heating and cooking, and accessing basic services like trash pickup or internet connectivity were all straightforward. Yet I soon learned that our water well and distribution system were both flawed and out-of-date. The on-site sewer facilities had signs of obvious neglect, and could be identified easily in summer months by a pungent aroma that wafted across the park. It made the end of every day an experience tainted with regret.

 

I hated the choice made in haste, and its aftermath.

 

Most of my neighbors had already surrendered to this deficiency, as a practical matter. They purchased bottled water off the premises, for everyday use. Additionally, power outages were common due to being in such a rural spot. Every interruption meant that our pumps ceased to function, and my household faucets went dry. So it was prudent to keep extra stock on hand. Afterward, a boil alert would be issued. Normally, a restriction that lasted about 72 hours. Winter months complicated these situations with freezing pipes and in-ground hydrants. The unreliable nature of our sourcing for such a vital necessity kept everyone on edge. I never knew what to expect, except for more inconveniences, and excuses from property managers.

 

The quality of what streamed through my tap was subject to wild fluctuations. One day, my wife collected a sample at our kitchen sink, and the plastic bottle showed a layer settling to its bottom of dark sediment that almost looked like aquarium gravel. This gritty muck quickly affected fixtures around our manufactured hovel, causing damage and plugging lines. The front bathroom became unusable. The dishwasher was ruined. Rust stains streaked the shower and tub. Our washing machine for clothes and bedding sputtered and suffered through every cycle. I got used to filling jugs with water, on the way home after each work shift. Complaining to our supervision did no good. Therefore, I simply lowered my head and kept moving.

 

On a regular basis, I received EPA reports in the mail that indicated our local hydration was safe to drink. When the visible contamination became so outrageous, my spouse declared that she was about to contact local news departments with the evidence she had obtained. But, this strategy of tweaking the dial did not yield any positive results. No one seemed to care. Our location was far off the radar. No special concerns boosted our standing with county officials, or with media outlets in Cleveland. In a sense, we were invisible.

 

Because both of us were constantly at work, it did not matter too much.

 

Two decades later, my inhabited shipping container was not so solid as before. Its floors had sagged due to leaks and temperature variations. The vinyl siding had peeled a bit. Some windows were cracked. The yard and driveway were marked with sunken patches of muddy soil. Someone who had lived in the park for a long period recalled that the spot had once been a marsh. Owners with an eye on using it to generate profit brought in truckloads of construction waste, and landfill. But while this plan was thought to be sufficient for creating a solid base, it instead provided only temporary relief. Eventually the porous, natural surroundings reclaimed their supremacy. Everything seeped into the dirt. Stones, pavers, and concrete all disappeared over time.

 

By then, I had replaced most of the faucets in my wheeled hut. Some, more than once. Fatigue made me surrender when the cost and effort were too great. I simply went without things that were too expensive to fix. Then, new owners from out of state instituted submetering for our water supply. My bill went from about $15.00 per month, to over $60.00. Other residents were forced to pay $100.00 with each billing, or more, depending on their usage.

 

This extreme burden only deepened our gloom as a private community. The aqua flow was still subpar, and sometimes reeked of chemicals. And as always, its sporadic availability could inspire fits of rage. Attempts to address this malady through legal and political means were unsuccessful.

 

Citations must have been piling up in the manager’s office. Yet little concrete action resulted. Everything was handled on an emergency basis. With a nod to minimalism, and frugality.

 

After such an extended stay at the rented lot, olden concerns about my public image and personal standing had long since evaporated. Divorce made me somewhat reclusive. I gave up on the notion of business consulting, with too many other projects already in the works. My finances dwindled until early retirement and disability took over. Instead of fretting about cosmetic improvements or structural worries, I counted pennies to keep cases of beer in my refrigerator.

 

My mindset had been changed forever by this contest for a resource no one could live without. Our battle was over. I had lost, and yet lived to tell the story.