Zoo Story

When I worked at Bond’s back in the seventies, Cecilia Evans Taylor, aka “Peach,” was an enjoyable and fascinating customer. She bought her art supplies from our store and we also framed her many paintings. Most of these paintings were of animals: horses, giraffes, lions, elephants - so of course I adored her artwork.

I became more acquainted with Peach when she bought a Rapidograph pen. She was fond of drawing with this pen - the fine lines were quite suitable for her delicate style; but she was always mystified when it stopped working every couple of weeks. She would bring it back to the store where I would unclog it, clean it for her and refill it with ink.

Unlike the more country club attire worn by other ladies in her age group and social stratum, Peach dressed in blue jeans and chambray work shirts and she was frequently adorned with impressive Navajo silver and turquoise jewelry. I remember her red Mustang always seemed to be overflowing with big happy dogs, and I loved these and other unexpected facets of her persona. Seeing a lady her age (I was in my twenties and she was in her seventies) wearing blue jeans made me want to be just like her when I grew up - she was the perfect role model for me: creative and eccentric and a lover of animals.

One day she came into the store and showed me a letter she had just received, a lengthy missive in cramped handwriting on onionskin, folded into small rectangles and coming all the way from Africa! It was from her good friend author Joy Adamson - I remember being so impressed - this was the woman who had written “Born Free.”

In those days I used to spend almost every weekend exhibiting at various area art shows - I exhibited an array of miscellaneous artsy and craftsy creations - macramé jewelry, abstract knotted sculpture as well as little pen and ink drawings of flowers, mushrooms, lady bugs and, of course, all sorts of animals.

Peach was an enthusiastic supporter of the Buffalo Zoo (I believe she was on their board of directors) and giraffes were her passion - she created a bronze giraffe statue for their grounds, and I recall that at one point in time she even donated a real live giraffe! It came as no surprise when she undertook a mission as one of the organizers of an art show fund raiser called “The Zootique” to take place at the zoo and she talked me into participating.

The space allotted to me for my display was, alas, in a dank, dimly lit area deep in the bowels of one of the zoo buildings - I remember all of the artists’ set-ups were scattered willy-nilly throughout. The fund-raiser was scheduled for a late November weekend and it unfortunately proved to be a dismal affair: torrential rain and chilly temperatures for the entire event which resulted in hardly any visitors and even fewer sales. I felt badly for Peach because she had been so incredibly excited about the grand possibilities of this idea.

One memory from that show that I have always treasured, however, was when Peach ushered in a dapper but slightly frazzled looking older man to see my display. She was very animated in showing him all of my wares and she ended her spiel by enthusing, “Mar made all of this by herself!” The gentleman looked me straight in the eye and simply said, “Congratulations.” Then she hustled him away to see the next artist. It was only later that I discovered I had just met Seymour Knox II.

Now, every morning on the way to my shop I drive up Parkside past the Buffalo Zoo and the Cecilia Evans Taylor Giraffe House. When the weather is appropriate and the giraffes are outside enjoying the fresh air in their enclosures, I wave at them and I think of Peach.

Bobbin' Along

My mom always had the radio on - listening in the forties to hit parade music and in the fifties to rock ‘n’ roll.  I can remember her dancing in the kitchen to “Shake, Rattle and Roll.”  But before rock ‘n’ roll came along, one of the very first song I can remember hearing when I was a toddler was “When the red red robin comes bob bob bobbin’ along.”  Mom and I used to sing along with the radio whenever it came on.  I remember having a great deal of fun with “Bob, bob, bob.”

Now all these years later it has occurred to me that I am still bobbin’ along.   When I was a teenager, the pop charts were flooded with “Bobbies” and I listened to of all of them.  Bobby Rydell, Bobby Curtola, Bobby Darin, Bobby Vinton.  They all flew out of my brain, however, when “The Bob” came along.  Bob Dylan. 

Dylan’s first self-titled album was released in March of 1962.  I was a sophomore in high school, happily surrounded by a whole passel of friends, doing well academically, dating my first real boyfriend - my life was perfect and I was in love with the world.  In June of that year my dad announced we were moving - (insert dramatic teenage pause) - and my life fell apart. 

Sometime during that awful summer, I stumbled upon that first Bob Dylan album at a Sears Roebuck store in Buffalo.  From the very first spin on the console record player in the living room, it captured my complete attention.  This music was so very different from the pop pap served up on the radio in those days so as I started my junior year in that new high school that I detested even before I stepped foot in it, my loathing was fueled by the unconventional “voice” of Bob Dylan.   (I must admit at this point in my narrative that I mispronounced his name “Dye-lan” for a while until a hip friend from the beloved former high school clued me in to the correct pronunciation - thanks Susan!)

The song that I became most enamored with on that first album was “Baby Let Me Follow You Down” and I played it repeatedly at top volume until my mother finally flew into the living room yelling for me to turn it off. “Do you know what that song is about?” she screamed.  (I had no idea what that song was about but it just sounded so dangerous I couldn’t help but be mesmerized by it.)  Senior year, when the socialite kids in this school were planning the details of their prom (“Blue Velvet” - named after the Bobby Vinton song) (Ack!), I was memorizing the words to “With God on Our Side.” It has always made me wonder - had I not changed towns and schools at that time in my life, would I be the person I am today?  Would I be a housewife?  Somebody’s  grandmother?  (Not that there's anything wrong with that!)  Would I be one of those people hanging on every episode of American Idol - a (shudder) pop music fan?

Dylan proved a prolific song writer and albums began flowing out of Columbia Records at a very swift pace and I acquired Freewheelin’ and The Times They Are a Changin’ and Another Side of Bob Dylan - all before I graduated from high school in 1964.  Songs that have stood my test of time from these three albums are “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right,” “With God on Our Side,” “ Boots of Spanish Leather”  and “All I really Want to Do” (Even now, I still hope to someday own a pair of “Spanish boots of Spanish leather”).

I have always credited Bob Dylan (and the Beatles to a lesser extent) to forever changing my life.   His raw and powerful songs enabled me to survive those last two years of high school.  In December of 1964, finally away from that awful town and safely ensconced at Buff State College, I attended my very first concert - seeing Bob Dylan and his special surprise guest Joan Baez, at Kleinhans Music Hall.  In the impressively designed and acoustically perfect hall, the crowd of college students in blue-jeans was interspersed with the very baffled Kleinhans patrons in their usual pearls and furs. It was thrilling to see Dylan and Baez together on that stage and I thought I had died and gone to Heaven.

Of course in 1965 everything seemed to happen at once - Dylan released two seminal albums Bringing it all Back Home and Highway 61 Revisited (still his two best, in my humble opinion).  These songs were embedded in my heart and brain and soul from the first second I heard them:  “Subterranean Homesick Blues,” “Mr. Tambourine Man,” “Gates of Eden,” “Queen Jane Approximately,” “Like a Rolling Stone,” and my all time favorite Dylan song, “She Belongs to Me.”  Just think - it has been 45 years now that I have been searching for an “Egyptian ring that sparkles before she speaks.”  And I have often imagined “She never stumbles, she’s got no place to fall,” as my perfect motto (for whenever I ever need a motto).

That same year I was in the crowd at the Newport Folk Festival when Dylan “went electric” (despite Pete Seeger and his frantic backstage efforts to try to pull the plug).  Some of the folkies booed but most were eventually captivated by both sides of Dylan, acoustic and electric.  In the fall of ’65 Dylan was back at Kleinhans again not too long after the Great Northeast Power Failure.  He did the first half of the concert with simply his guitar and harmonica, and then for the second half, out came the electric guitars and amps.  When he took to the stage for this electric set, some guy yelled out “Pray for another power failure!” and everyone laughed and the concert went on without a hitch.

Dylan was involved in a serious motorcycle accident in July of 1966 and did not tour again for eight years although he recorded albums with some regularity in that interval.  Blonde on Blonde which contained “Rainy Day Women #12 and 35,”  and “Just Like a Woman,” John Wesley Harding with “All Along the Watchtower,” and Nashville Skyline with “Girl From the North Country” and “Lay, Lady, Lay.”  I missed buying Self Portrait and New Morning in sequence, but later became fond of “Quinn, the Eskimo” and “If Not for You.”  I remember buying Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid and loving the entire soundtrack especially “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.”

In the summer of 1972 a very interesting Dylan incident occurred which at the same time had both everything and nothing to do with him.  I was attending the Mariposa Folk Festival on Toronto Island and that weekend a rumor began circulating throughout the crowd that various folk celebrities had been spotted in our midst:  Joni Mitchell, Gordon Lightfoot, and (Gasp!) Bob Dylan himself.  We were hoping one or all of these luminaries would grace the main stage for a nighttime concert. 

One bright afternoon I was sitting on my blanket not really paying any attention to an old timey folk duo on one of the workshop stages under the huge willows along the shining water’s edge.  It was a tranquil workshop, the crowd couldn’t have been more than a couple of hundred languid sun-worshipers, and I don’t think any of us were doing anything other than killing time until the next workshop.  Suddenly a murmur swept through the crowd like a tsunami and we all seemed to be instantaneously aware that “Bob Dylan is here!”

As one, the crowd jumped to its feet, and began the first few steps of a crazed dash off into the direction (stage left) where Dylan was supposed to have been seen.  And just as swiftly we all changed our minds and went back to our spaces and sat down.  I cannot speak for anyone else present that afternoon, but in my Gemini mind the following dialogue took place:  “Oh my God!  Bob Dylan is here - we must run to him!  But then what, what would we do?  He would be very annoyed to be mobbed by hundreds of crazed folkies. In addition, we would be insulting these lovely traditional performers by abandoning them on this little stage, so we are being silly and let’s just sit back down.”

The event that I have labored to describe for the last three paragraphs took place in less than a minute from start to finish and it is one of the oddest occasions of mass hysteria (and mass sanity) I have ever encountered.  Poor Bob never knew what he missed that afternoon. 

In 1974 his career seemed to ramp up a lot and he released Planet Waves (containing “Forever Young”), and the live album with The Band, Before the Flood.   1975 brought Blood on the Tracks and my next batch of treasured favorites: “Tangled Up in Blue,” “Simple Twist of Fate” and “Lily, Rosemary & the Jack of Hearts.”

I was still bobbin’ along in late1975 when Dylan’s own version of the magical mystery tour, the incredible Rolling Thunder, came to town.  I rank that event as one of my all time favorite top ten concerts.  I have little recall of the concert in its entirety, just one amazing performance after another and when Joan Baez sang “Amazing Grace” it was so quiet in the Niagara Falls Convention Center you could literally have heard a pin drop.   Scarlet Rivera was particularly otherworldly playing her electric violin (considering when Dylan released “Desolation Row” back in 1965 we all assumed he was singing about an imaginary instrument). 

Over the years, Dylan had an almost mystical ability to gather outstanding musicians to back his efforts - among my favorite sidemen were Bruce Langhorne, Al Cooper, Mike Bloomfield, and of course, The Band.  The silvery soaring silkiness from these (and many other) incredible musicians provided an ideal juxtaposition for Dylan’s always unique vocalizations and his dancing tumbling lyrics.

In 1976, along with a live concert recording of The Rolling Thunder tour, Hard Rain, Dylan released Desire containing yet another of my absolute favorites, “Isis.”  1978 brought the release of Street Legal and although I loved the photograph on the cover and owned a huge poster of it, the songs therein rang no bells for me.  Dylan also performed a number of solo concerts in the seventies - in 1978 I was fortunate enough to see him in Toronto, Buffalo and Rochester!  Plus I was able to photograph him from my second row seat at the Aud in Buffalo - not the world’s best photos but they made me very happy for many years.

The last two albums I ever bought were Live at Budokan, which was nice but I rarely listened to it, and Slow Train Coming which I played only once.    Those were in 1979, and by that time Talking Heads  and The Rocky Horror Picture Show with Tim Curry and many other performers had entered the scene and then came the eighties and the Continental and local bands and musicians, all jostling for room in my life.  Oddly enough, although I rarely approve of cover songs, Tim Curry recorded a breathy and riveting version of “Simple Twist of Fate” and I still enjoy it equally with the Dylan original.

So I guess 1979 was about when I stopped following his career.  I have memorized almost every single word to every single song in Dylan’s first dozen or so albums, but, again, in my humble opinion, he suddenly “jumped the shark” and I stopped buying new albums.  I saw him being inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 1991 and (later learned) it was “Masters of War” which he had performed but as I was watching it I could not understand a single word he was singing and I couldn’t even figure out which song he was doing.  Friends who are Dylan fans tell me his new stuff is great and I will take their word for it - I have no desire to immerse myself in any new Dylan songs.  My Bob Dylan remains suspended in as if in amber between 1962 and 1978.  Both of us are floating there - forever young.

In her 95th year now, my step mother enjoys watching and listening to the musical stylings of The Lawrence Welk Show. If I am blessed with such health and longevity, mayhap someday I will be the one in the rocking chair on the porch of an old folk’s home and I can only hope I will still be bobbin’ along, listening to Bringing it All Back Home and Highway 61 Revisited. 

"Bobby Dylan" by Mar 1965

"No wonder you never had any kids!"

Part One – THE BLUE DRESS

My mother did not drive.  Nor would she ride in a car during daylight hours so shopping was pretty much out of the question for her (with the notable exception of the Sears Roebuck Catalog, from which she regularly made sure my father remained forever buried under a small mountain of debt).  Whenever any shopping expedition was required, especially in late summer when a new school wardrobe was needed, my mother made my father drive me to Batavia or sometimes even Buffalo to go to a big department store like Woolworth’s, Adam, Meldrum and Anderson’s or that brightly lit new upstart – K-Mart.

On one such foray, during the early sixties, we returned home from the K-Mart in Batavia with a light blue tailored linen dress with navy trim and buttons.  It was an A-line dress – I loved this dress but when I modeled it for mom she acted both horrified and embarrassed.   She was so flabbergasted  dad and I had a really difficult time trying to get her to reveal why she was so flustered,  but she finally blurted out what she thought must have happened:  my poor addled father and I had wandered by mistake into the maternity section of the store.  Gasp!   Nothing we could say would dissuade her.  Her mind was set - it was a maternity dress and if I wore it out in public - to church or to school, “People will think you’re pregnant!”

I tried to counter her argument by saying that all anyone would have to do is wait a few months and when no blessed event came forth then people would just have to stop thinking I was wearing maternity clothes.  But no – there was no arguing with my mother.  Even my dad knew it was a losing battle and retired to the solitude of his study to work on one of his sermons.

My mom then proceeded to spend the next several days remaking the dress – she ripped out the seams, she shaped it and reshaped it.  She was never quite able to make it into one of her beloved shirtwaists, but she came as close as she could until she was finally satisfied that I would be OK to appear in public in this garment and not a soul would harbor the dreaded thought that I might be pregnant.

Look how thrilled I am in this photo!

Part Two – RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

In 1965, when Paul and I announced that we were to be wed, my mother was overcome with joy –that is, until I informed her that I did not want any kind of engagement ring, only a simple gold band as a wedding ring.  No diamonds for me, no siree!  I thought they were ugly and stupid and I am sure Paul was greatly relieved at dodging this very expensive pre-nuptial bullet.

My mother, however, contributed to the occasion with a familiar yet unexpected refrain, “You can’t just get married, you have to become engaged, otherwise everyone will think you had to get married – people will think you are pregnant!”

Once again I retorted that if anyone at all were to be paying attention to this little event of ours, all they would have to do is keep an eye on me to see if any babies were forthcoming and if none showed up then they could rest assured no shotguns were involved in the proceedings and all was above board and on the up and up.  And once again, in the eyes of the greater community, my virginity could be assumed to have been a proven fact and my mother could hold her head high in public.

My mother, again proving quite intractable, simply would not stop her argument until Paul and I went out one day, found a little junky antique store on Elmwood Avenue in Buffalo, and purchased a cheap old gold band set with three stones, a chipped opal in the center and two garnets, I believe, on either side of the opal.  Paul tied this onto the pale blue neck-ribbon of a plush toy Siamese cat and gave it to me for Christmas that year and my mom was beyond delighted.

I discovered many years later, after my mom had died, that a ring of that type - set with a row of stones, is often called a Mother’s Ring – each stone represents the birthstone of a child.  If my mom had known that she probably would have had kittens.

Part Three -THE WEDDING GOWN WAR

I have already described one of the skirmishes in the Wedding War – the battle of the engagement ring.  My mother won that one.

Herein follows the tale of the Battle of the Wedding Gown.   I will leave it to you, gentle reader, to decide the winner.

I am of the belief that my mother began planning the wedding the moment I told her I had met this nice guy named Paul.  She went into overdrive when I declared our love, and she went into orbit when I announced the wedding. 

I bought a bride’s magazine and found a pretty yet plain gown.  My mother was crushed that I was not planning to have her sew my gown.  She was, after all, a wonderful seamstress and I must admit she had probably been planning my gown since the day I was born.  She had made most of my baby clothes and most of the clothing I wore until I managed to convince her that T shirts and dungarees were my preferred mode of dress and I was able to finally escape her frilly, girlie ideas of apparel.

I grudgingly agreed to let her do a gown for me, but then one day Paul and I were wandering down Elmwood again and I found a lovely white satin floor-length gown with multi-colored embroidered ribbons on the sleeves – this dress was from Mexico and I was ready to buy it on the spot but I decided to tell my mom about it first.  She was crestfallen at the news and made my father drive her from Mayville to Buffalo so she could see this garment in person.  This was the first time I remember her being in a store since I was a very little kid.  She was appalled at the sloppy stitching and even more appalled at the colorful trim on the sleeves.

Obviously this could in no way be designated a wedding gown because of course if I were to wear any color other than a white as pure as the driven snow – it would be screaming out to any and all that I was pregnant (sound familiar?).  My mother put her tiny foot down and that was that.  The Mexican wedding dress was out.

My grandparents became involved in the Battle of the Wedding Dress.  Grandma tried her best to be the peacemaker between mom and me, and Grandpa got “het-up” and one of his rants that I recall began, “Why don’t you just wear blue jeans and ride a horse down the aisle!?!”  (Of course I thought that was a wonderful idea!)

Mom and I wrangled back and forth – would I buy a gown, would she make one.  She sent away for patterns and yards of satin while I bought magazines.  She convinced me that she could make a gown and we finally settled on the plainest empire waist A-Line gown, with elbow length bell-sleeves and a very simple unadorned neckline.  And I began to campaign for embroidered ribbon trim on the sleeves.  No, not in color, simply in metallic gold and white – different widths and designs of ribbons – row upon row.

We sent away for samples of trims and in the mean time I was busy convincing her that gold wasn’t really a color and no, people wouldn’t think I was pregnant.

Mom swung into action – sewing seams and ripping them out and doing fittings and re-sewing and re-ripping.  But she was obviously having fun so how could I get angry with her?  By the end of the whole ordeal, however, she had sneakily added a lace mantilla with gold edging and a huge gold-edged lace overskirt.  Luckily she ran out of time before the wedding or I would have been clad in lace from head to toe.

So that is why I never had any children.  I blame my mother.  I also thank my friend Babe St. Joan for the title of this post.  That is what she said to me when I told her these stories.

My Grandpa in 1910

I come from a long line of weirdos.

Link Free Zone

It just occurred to me that I have been publishing this blog for almost a year now and I have not posted one single link.  Tell your friends -  Tilting at Woodpeckers:  the Link Free Zone!  Uninterrupted reading for your edification and enjoyment.  Something new for the Interwebs.  :) (LOL)

The Sump Pump Chronicles (Part Two)

After waiting several weeks for it to rain again so I could determine if the pump was working, I decided it wasn't and so I hauled it out, took it back to the local independent hardware store and had it replaced with a new one.  That took about two minutes and the nice man even carried it out to the car for me (Valu Home Center, Nash Road, Wheatfield - yay!).

Reinstalled the pump.  Replaced leaky flexible hose.  Turned on the breaker.  It worked!  I have a few leaks to deal with, however - one at the other end of the flexible hose (hopefully taken care of now) and one where the semi-rigid pipe attaches to the sewer pipe over on the other side of the crawl space.  *groan*

It rained the other day and I heard a strange sound - the pump had come on all by itself!  YAY!

So all I have to do now is fix those leaks....

I'd better do it soon - I am losing interest in this project.

The Sump Pump Chronicles

Day One, Monday: 

Bought a new column sump pump at the local indy hardware store. It was on sale! Yay! Saved ten bucks!  Yay!

1/3 horsepower, one year warranty, previous pump lasted 11 years.

My crawl space is has gravel on the floor,  and of course the sump hole is as far away from the door as it can be. I have approximately 36" of clearance with pipes and stuff all over the place that will force one to duck even lower. I have covered part of the floor with 6 mil plastic.

Had not been under there for a couple of years.

Have to gird my loins and every other part of me - tall rubber boots over long socks with sweatpants tucked in. Shirt tucked into pants, long sleeved hoodie over that with hood tied on so no spiders will end up down the back of my neck.

Foam knee pads and rubber gloves complete my ensemble. I look so very fashionable. Oh! And sometimes I wear goggles, too.  Couldn't keep the goggles on too long because they kept steaming up.  It had to be over 80° in there - and the humidity was over 90%.

So I made a careful list of everything I needed so I would only have to make one trip in and out. Dragged all of my tools and such in a back pack and pushed the box (with the pump) ahead of me as I crawled in. Carried a rechargeable flashlight in case the power went out.

I thought of everything.

I thought of everything except for the stuff I forgot.

So I had to crawl back out and get a measuring tape, some duct tape, rope, bungee cords and a few other items. Made sure sump pump breaker was OFF up in the house.

Crawled back in.

Unplugged and removed old pump. Removed flexible hose.

Reattached flexible hose to new pump. Set up the float valve.

Inserted new pump into sump hole (which was full of water) and it tipped over immediately. Could not seem to get it to stay level. Tied it and bungeed it into position finally, replaced the cover, gathered all my tools, plugged it in, and crawled out.

Turned on the breaker.

Nothing happened.

It had tipped over. Found this out after I crawled back again (after turning off the breaker because it is so drenchingly wet under the house I am petrified of getting electrocuted and then who would feed my kitties?). I unplugged it.

Repositioned the beast, reset the ropes and cords, replugged it, crawled back out, staggered up the steps into the house, turned on the breaker, YAY!!! It was running!!!

YAY!!!!!

It shut off after 10 minutes and I could see from the doorway it had tilted again. No more crawling tonight.

Day Two, Tuesday:

Read and reread the little booklet that came with the pump. It suggested that if one were to experience a tilting problem with a flexible hose hookup, one might consider installing a sturdy PVC discharge pipe between the catch valve and the flexible pipe.

So I made a list of needed items and stopped at the local hardware on the way home from the shop.

Bought two rubber flexible couplers with stainless clamps, a five foot length of PVC and one male adapter because they thought I might need it.  Had two hardware guys helping me with this purchase, and it took 20 minutes to come up with this solution.

After I got home, checked the breaker to make sure it was turned off, donned my "outfit" this time I decided to utilize my little red plastic sled to transfer all the goodies underneath to the work site. This also included a half a concrete block which was gonna be my new weight for the sump hole cover.

So I gathered everything including an extension cord and a clip on lamp (did I mention the rechargeable flashlight died halfway through Monday?) and duct tape to protect the plug.  Put my cordless phone into a baggie and brought it with me in case I had a stroke or something.

So I crawled in, pushing the very heavy sled and playing out the extension cord for the clip on lamp.

Unplugged the pump. Unhooked the flexible hose. Measured the PVC. Cut it.

Too long! Was hitting a duct. So I cut it again. This time it fit nicely and I fastened it to the adapter and the check valve with the rubber connector. Inserted everything into the hole and the whole thing came loose. Did it again, only tighter. Came loose again.

Grrrr.....

Tried the other end, the end that attaches to the hose. Well, they sold me the wrong size flexible connector.

Grrrrr.......

Hooked the thing back up as the original pump had been connected, hose to check valve.

Plugged it back in, crawled back out, got a Charlie horse in my leg climbing through the doorway, managed to make it back into the house, turn on the breaker, it worked for 5 minutes then tipped over again.

I turned off the breaker and went to bed early.

Day Three, Wednesday:

Took the cut length of PVC and all of the connectors to the shop to play with.  Re-cut both ends of the PVC and filed them smooth. Decided that the adapter end needed a build up of something sturdy to even out the gripping space, so I used two film canisters and a short length of blue plastic tubing and at least got the check valve end to fit really well.

Added a few more things to my list like old towels to soak up some of the water lying around on the plastic in the crawl space, and I stopped at the hardware store again on my way home from the shop to exchange the rubber connector to the correct size.

Got home, checked to make sure breaker was off, donned my now rather sweaty and disgusting outfit, gathered the new items for the sled and crawled in.

Unplugged and unhooked everything. Started rehooking up the PVC pipe, and that is when I realized that the new correct connector was still in my purse, upstairs in the house.

Crawled out, got the connector, crawled back in.

Hooked everything up perfectly.

Stabilized the whole get up, wired it into place, very happy.

But I left the sled under the house when I crawled out to turn on the breaker.

Pump worked for ten minutes, I sat in the doorway happily listening to it. Then it turned off and in the sudden stillness I could hear distinct leaking and dripping noises.

By the time I ran into the house, turned off the breaker, ran back out and crawled back under, the leaking had ceased but the rubber connector by the flexible hose, the motor of the pump, and the board covering the hole were all soaked.

So I wiped everything off, unplugged everything, crawled back out, turned off the breaker and went to bed.

I am thinking about just going back to the original set up, returning the two rather expensive flexible connectors, and using the pipe for something somewhere down the line.

*sigh*

Day Four, Thursday:

Checked breaker is off. Crawled under house to put up a clear plastic splash sheet to protect motor from moisture if I have not tightened the connectors tight enough.

Crawled back out - turned on the breaker. Nothing.

Worked out a plan to minimize the crawling.

Turned breaker off, unplugged trouble light extension in garage. Crawled back in, switched plugs - plugged light into sump outlet and plugged pump into extension.

Crawled back out - turned on breaker - light goes on!

Plugged in extension cord. Sump pump does not go on.

So.....

This tells me that the outlet is OK, the breaker is OK and the PUMP IS WONKY!!!!!

I am getting ready to haul it out now, repackage it and exchange it for a new one.

Grrrrrr.......

OK, so now that I think of it, when I turned it on last night the motor may have gotten a bit wet from the leaking whatever part.

It should be able to stand a little moisture, doncha think? It is a sump pump for crying out loud!!!

Just crawled back in for a looksee and discovered that the sump hole is nearly dry - it had at least 12 inches of water in it earlier - and the plastic splash sheet I taped up is also dry - so I guess I solved the leaking problem and while I was searching online sump pump troubleshooting guides, it must have turned itself on and pumped out all the water.

It is a lot quieter than my old one.

So I just have to keep an ear out for it now for the next couple of days - and the tools in the sled can stay under there for a while.

Turns out not all of the leaks were solved,  another visit to the beast showed some drippy areas so I have tightened all of the clamps as tightly as I can tighten them.

I posted this photo online elsewhere and someone suggested I looked like the Sump Pump Grim Reaper and another person said I looked like the Statue of Liberty (tired, poor, weary) but I think I shall call it......"The Statue of Limitations."

Goin' on a Pump Crawl with the Statue of Limitations.