c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(12-24)
Living in a community of mobile homes is humbling for many reasons. Not the least of which is the stigma attached to such properties by those who dwell in more proper living spaces. Amazingly, friends who exist with a meager amount of support, and others who are more refined culturally and blessed with greater sums of financial wealth, prefer to be stuck in a shoebox somewhere. An apartment or condominium, or perhaps, a luxury high-rise. Many others plant their flag in the suburban soil of a home tract, as part of a neighborhood neatly arranged by developers. They extol the virtues of a real house with a yard and garage. But those of us who live outside of such comfortable, social bubbles, do so in a world charted by sacrifice.
I often liken my trailer to having the confined characteristics of a shipping container. And indeed, though it is portable in a literal sense, moving this longbox is not something accomplished so easily as parking a motor vehicle. Wheels would have to be reattached, axles positioned and checked, and a yoke bolted to the front frame section.
A neighbor who thought that this chore was none too daunting moved his own domicile, last year during the winter. The result was tragic for him and his brood. Multiple breakdowns along the way to a new site, and finally, a roadgoing flip and structural collapse. This dramatic event made me sad, to see a fellow adventurer suffering. Yet it amused others along my crumbling street, who did not embrace such risky plans with the zeal of a naïve explorer.
While I have no particular appetite for such a gamble in my own life, being able to survive frosty months in my prefab structure has proven to be challenging enough. With every dip of the thermometer causing hand-wringing and concern. The worry over icy pipes and a slippery access ramp is persistent. Moreover, being huddled inside, with snow piling up in prodigious quantities, only deepens the misery.
Still, none of this represents the frightening prospect of living without water.
A recent episode followed the usual curve of weather in northeastern Ohio. We had enjoyed spectacular conditions throughout the fall, long into November. But immediately after Thanksgiving, meteorological experts predicted a drop in the numbers that would have our teeth chattering, and Lake Erie cranking up the ski machine. This pattern manifested itself over a week, with more than five feet of snow being rudely deposited along the northcoast.
As a disabled retiree, I knew well to stock up ahead of time. I loaded the kitchen cupboards and stacked cases of water and beer in my living room. Beef smokies were bagged and in the refrigerator. I had bread and pretzels and plenty of canned foods at the ready.
A couple of neighbors checked in, to make sure that I was safe and steady throughout this pelting of winter white. One was a young fellow from up the street, a retail worker with a cheerful disposition, and lots of patience for listening to my stories about the world before he was born. The other was a chum who had also battled his way through many years as a decent, honest soul. A person I did not know well, and yet, connected with easily, through respect and shared experiences. In our blue-collar environment.
After surviving this brief interlude of isolation, I felt confident about getting through the latter days of our year, and into the pristine pages of a new calendar. But an unexpected wrecking ball shattered that mood of calm, before I could catch my breath.
Our water supply at the park, always a subject of much debate because of its unpredictable nature and poor quality, failed around four o’clock in the morning.
Temperatures were already in the teens when this dreaded event occurred. I had prepared by leaving a faucet partially open in my bathtub. A trick learned some 22 years earlier, from a veteran of the development. But with the flow of crystal liquid interrupted, suddenly, I was powerless to defend my home. Excuses multiplied before any corrective action was taken. Our park manager was sidelined by some undetermined ailment. We did not have anyone on the staff with enough knowledge to work at the wellhouse. Manned hours at the office were already cut short, due to hiring issues.
It took more than a dozen hours before anything happened. Though the sound of bitching and moaning must have been audible, all the way to Canada.
When our service was restored, I still had no water. At least four of us shared that delay. While sitting idle, the in-ground hydrants had frozen. Some, even with a liberal amount of heat tape wrapping the mechanisms up, like a counterculture Christmas present.
Lots of cursing followed. And many posts in our online, Facebook groups.
“I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS! EVERY YEAR IT HAPPENS! EVERY DAMNED YEAR!”
I did not vocalize my woes, having long ago learned that spouting off verbally usually made no difference. But I did connect with fellow residents, to stay informed. And, while dryly swaddled in extra blankets, indoors, I pondered that my paternal grandparents had lived in an old farmhouse, southeast of Columbus, which never had plumbing or pipes, or a heating system installed. They used a kerosene heater, and wore their coats throughout the blustery months. Such sturdy folk were able to brave harsh conditions with a grin and a nod to circumstance. But for me, the yield was different. Four or five days without this familiar convenience turned me into a quivering mass of jelly.
I could barely eat or sleep or even sit at my desk. Every thought turned to my plight. While feeling stalled and surly, cranky and crabby. Knocked off the rails by having to live like my progenitors.
Amid the uncertainty of being denied this comfort, I ordered pizza delivery and drank Miller beer. A stray feline that had adopted my homestead as her own waystation kept me occupied and amused. I tried to watch shows on my flatscreen display, yet couldn’t stay interested for long. My concentration skills had been busted.
In a sense, I was actually living off-the-grid. Something that a sturdier individual might boast about, in a tell-all memoir, or a novel. I should have met my fate more graciously. But many aluminum cylinders of High Life brew tipped me into a chasm of oblivion. I fell asleep in sweaty, soiled clothes, with laundry and dished piled everywhere. Then, near the hour of midnight, I had to visit my bathroom. On the way, teetering with both canes, I heard the spray of an open valve.
The hooked faucet on my tub was alive again, with a streaming bounty of purified rain!
Oddly, in the aftermath of such memorable happenings, everything seems very quiet. And it did indeed, as I started a load in my automatic washer, cleaned dishes at the sink, and then sat with the stray kitty, in a chair by my sofa.
Quiet, quiet, quiet.
Eventually, my temporary companion had filled her belly with Meow Mix from a Gibson bowl, and lingered in front of the door. She wanted to go on a hunt, after hours. Her emotional support had ended. So, just as I might have done for one of my dogs, I let her out, to wander. I would not see her again until later, the next morning.
I checked and rechecked the tub, to make sure that it was still bubbling away. A weather report indicated that our state would find itself back in the 50’s, once the new day had blossomed. Finally, I had pushed my endurance far enough.
I fell asleep in my camo hoodie, around two o’clock in the morning. But not before putting my hands together, and whispering a prayer of thanks, for modernity.
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