Beech Tree News Network

My husband, Garey, is your typical country guy.  In his younger years, he would spend the night running trot lines on the river, eating from a camp fire, sleeping on a piece of plastic on the ground, ignoring mosquitoes buzzing around his ears, even grabbing a snake once that had crawled up next to where he was sleeping and flinging it into the nearby river.  

Many times during our nearly forty-five years together, I have watched Garey make something from seemingly nothing, redneck-engineering contraptions on farm tractors in order to finish a project before dark.  He uses things other people would get rid of, like pieces of his sister’s chain link fence, and he builds things from wood he has scavenged from pallets and packing crates.  Garey follows the cardinal rule handed down in his family for generations: Don’t pay someone to do something you can do yourself.  This genetic bent toward handy and cheap has served him well.  It hasn’t always worked in my favor, however.  

Because Garey has done so many projects himself, he has a pretty good idea how long any given project will take, as well as how much it will cost.  When I told him I needed a new toilet in my second bathroom, he laid out the entire project for me from beginning to end, with potential obstacles he might encounter along the way.  Who knew you could rebuild an engine in a D-8 dozier in the time it would take to replace a toilet?  When I told him I could hire a plumber to replace the toilet, he presented me with a list of expenses that would force us to mortgage the house.

I have told Garey for many years that I wanted a new toilet in the second bathroom.  I’m not sure how many times I’ve told him, but I know how many years—thirty -seven.  For thirty-seven years, I have had to explain to any friends or family we have had to stay over that because the toilet is so sluggish, you have to flush it at least three times for it to complete its job.  As if that weren’t bad enough, this past fall, the toilet started whistling then screeching and finally screaming.  One of our friends told Garey it was the inner workings in the water tank that caused the problem, so he replaced the innerworkings, and sure enough, the screaming stopped, but the flushing problem didn’t.

Garey lives by the “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” rule, as well as by the amended version, “If it is broke, don’t fix it,” so he saw no need to replace the toilet.  I read once that ten is the number that represents the test, and the number 37 reduces to a ten, so I guess this was my year to have my patience tested.  I failed.  I went online and found the number for a professional plumber.  I called and made an appointment.  I drove to Lowes and bought one of those toilets that advertises it is so powerful, it can flush golf balls—the picture on the side of the box is a toilet bowl containing six golf balls.  I told Garey what I had done.

“It might not even be the toilet,” Garey said, “It could be the line to the septic tank is blocked.”

“I thought of that,” I said, “I told him he might need a roto rooter.  He said he would bring one.”

“If you didn’t buy the same size toilet as the old one, it might not fit the hole in the floor, and he will have to modify the floor,” he said.

“Then he will just have to modify the floor,” I said.

“Also, if it doesn’t fit, he’ll have to crawl under the house and move the pipes around or install new pipes,” Garey said.

“You know what,” I said, “I don’t care if it takes him two weeks and he has to come back every day for that entire length of time, and I have to pay a daily service call plus labor and parts to remodel the entire bathroom, I’m going to have a toilet that flushes!”  (See what I mean about failing the test?)

The plumber came on the scheduled day.  He was on time.  He put coverings over his shoes before he came into the house, so he wouldn’t track up my floors—that alone was worth fifty bucks.  I showed him where the toilet was and explained my problem.  He said he didn’t think it was my septic line.  He thought it was a sediment build up in the toilet itself, but he would check everything out and make sure it worked before he left.  He went to his truck typed up an estimate and presented it to me for my approval.  Then he got to work.

I told him if he needed anything, I would be doing laundry.  He said he shouldn’t need anything.

Exactly one hour after he arrived at my front door—and I noted the time he arrived at my front door—he called out to me from the bathroom.  “Mrs. Hughes, comes flush the toilet and see if it is satisfactory.”

“You’re finished!” I said.  I could hardly believe it.  I raced to the bathroom and pushed down the handle.  There was a loud whoosh, and the water in the bowl disappeared.  I resisted the urge to toss in a handful of golf balls, I didn’t want to press my luck.

The plumber loaded the old toilet, along with the box and plastic from the new toilet and all his tools into his truck.  He presented me with a bill that was exactly what the estimate said it would be.  I paid him without having to mortgage the house.