Septic Tank Trauma

I bet you flush the toilet in town without a hint of paranoia. I did before I bought my farm. Those sacred words. My farm.

My realtor was the only one in the office willing to work in my price range. The horse shed was in better shape than the house, but that was fine. There was flat sandy soil, the size of a dressage arena, out by the road. I was being practical, even responsible, because if I came off my horse, eventually someone would drive by.

The week before closing, I raced from Denver to meet the inspector, but got caught in traffic. When I arrived, the inspector was gone, but my realtor handed me the paperwork. She said we passed. My farm had a pond; waterfront property on the desert prairie. There was a highlighted note in the report stating the leach field was half under the freestanding garage. I asked if that was a problem. In those innocent days, I wasn’t sure what a leach field was. The realtor shrugged, repeating that it passed inspection. By the look of her shoes, she probably didn’t know what a leach field was either.

I didn’t think about it again. Too busy tearing out orange shag carpet and building fence. The house has a shower, with a window overlooking the barn pens. I still get some of my best ideas standing there, brushing my teeth, and gazing at my favorite horses. One morning I stepped into the shower, and not even 10 feet from the house, there was a 6×8 foot rectangular hole in the ground. It was black, so probably deep. The theme from Twilight Zone rose out of nowhere. I barrelled out the back door, with my dog, Howdy, leading the way. The ground was slick. I followed him around the corner of the house, just in time to see him back-pedal to a teetering stop, one of his front paws waving in midair. Easy to identify as the septic tank now. I skidded, grabbed Howdy’s collar, and pulled him back. And that’s the happy ending. Howdy was unscathed. The story is not nearly over, but if you want a happy ending, stop here.

For the next two years, there was a bright blue tarp over it, rocks holding the edges down. Between my move and the 9-11 attacks, my business was floundering. Not my best days. I was cleaning other people’s toilets to make ends meet. Eventually, I found out septic tanks need to be pumped, who knew, and made an appointment. They asked if the septic would be easy to locate. Yes, I said.

A bit of backstory. I am not always a trusting person. It started when I bought my first car in high school. It was VW Bug with bald tires. So mature, I went to a tire store. I was the last customer of the day, almost 9pm and I was reading in the waiting area. Two or three men done for the day gathered at the cash register. Then peels of laughter. They were boasting about ripping off a woman. So hilarious how foolish women were about cars. Was it me? Did they not know I was there?

I stood up and walked over, forcing a steady voice and making eye contact. I spoke up, but it was probably the sight of a customer embarrassed them into silence. My car got finished quickly then. Driving away, I knew I was their next hysterically funny joke. The look on my face must have been laughable. Since then, I’ve hired drunken carpenters, nearly came to blows with a roofer, and had a large equipment operator proposition me. But I digress…

The man who came to pump my septic looked at the tarp in horror and immediately claimed to be my best friend. He told me the entire system needed to be replaced, costing thousands of dollars. Imagine my face. Then he suggested a shady character, I mean, a man he knew, who could put a metal lid on it with no permit, cash only. It was an obvious choice.

Twenty years flew by and recently a different man in a different pump truck told me the septic was breaking down. It was too small, the cement was crumbling, it needed to be replaced. I’m skeptical. The entire system, I ask. Nope, just the tank, he says. Still, I research online because that’s not what the last guy said. And I am permanently skeptical now.

After a couple of estimates, I pick the older man who was polite, humble, but had a higher estimate. He was a shill. His fortyish son does the work. The son carries himself like a bull rider, puffed up and cocky. When the new tank had been planted, he says we need a leach field. It isn’t dependable, he says, this miracle under the garage. He shakes his head. You can hook it up to the old one if you want to, and hope it doesn’t back up, he says. The words sound almost like a threat. Why is he pushing? An allergy to skeptical old women who ask hard questions?

I stand there, an older version of the girl in the tire store, looking for answers. He speaks down to me, repeating the same problem again. I tell him I understand. That wasn’t what I was asking. I might be an idiot, but the leach field was still working. When I ask for a price range, he throws his hands theatrically into the air. It starts at a few thousand, he says, but the sky’s the limit. It could cost anything. Really, you can’t even guess?

Then he asked if I had children. I looked at him for a long moment because it was all I could do to not kick him. Instead, I said, it was none of his business. Because it wasn’t. Undaunted, he asked who would get the farm when I died. Did I want to leave it in poor condition?

I wondered if he expected me to take out a 20-year mortgage for my non-existent children? And who threatens old people?

Well then, he said, it will still need a leach field to sell. Like last time, I thought?

He was hawking septic systems like used cars. Maybe his small business is struggling like mine. Who knows? I still didn’t trust him. A month has passed and the new septic tank is playing nice with the old leach field. For now.

This is what I know. A septic tank is every bit as fun as shopping for a vacuum cleaner. Or getting a root canal. Or buying tires when you’re 16 years old. And much of life revolves around one kind of excrement or another.

No, this isn’t the usual essay about training horses. But maybe this is how horses get sour. Not a big incident, but the nagging memory that you aren’t safe. Not everyone prioritizes your well-being. An ongoing pattern of knowing you’re vulnerable. Feeling like prey. Is it really so different? Doesn’t everything come down to a question of trust?

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