By Sue Murphy
There’s nothing like coming back from a relaxing vacation to the smell of mildew. Wet bathing suits? Not that lucky. No, while I was soaking up sun, my kitchen floors were soaking up water. A lot of
water. Apparently, there’s a little valve on my refrigerator hose that decided to open when it should have closed. Never happened in the past three years I’d been looking straight at it. Nope, just like a naughty child, it waited until I turned my back and then did something very, very bad.
I dropped my suitcase, hauled the sodden kitchen rugs outside and called my insurance agent. No problem, she said. We’ll get this fixed up in no time. She put me in touch with a super duper rescue team that swooped in with drying mats and fans. There were cords to the right of me, hoses to the left of me, and the noise was deafening. It was like living in a wind tunnel, but it would be worth it to have things back to normal again. I could do this.
The next day, a leak detective team arrived equipped with head-
phones and gauges a la the Ghostbusters. The culprit was the
refrigerator, alright. The good news was that the rest of my appliances and pipes were cleared of all charges.
The roar continued for days and days, but the floor was still wet. The rescue chief shook his head. “We’ll have to rip out the floor.” I kind of saw that coming, but before they could rip out the floor, they had to rip out the cabinets that were sitting on top of the floor. I spent the afternoon emptying those cabinets, carrying all of my dishes and bakeware and pots and pans upstairs and laying them out on the beds. The good news there? I checked off my exercise requirement for the whole week.
On destruction day, I sat crouched over my computer because I couldn’t bear to watch, but the crackerjack crew had the dismantling done by dinner- time. They squared everything away in the garage, covered the outlets, ran the sweeper and restarted the fans. (Cue the roar.)
Now, when the cabinets went, so did my kitchen sink and stove. I had no workable oven, no microwave, no dishwasher. My poor refrigerator, stripped of its ice making privileges, stood sad and guilty on the subfloor. I couldn’t cook, but if you know any- thing about me, you know that wasn’t a problem. Still, my house looked like one of those also-ran choices on “House Hunters International” thrown in for its European
charm. “There’s no running water, but look at the view.” My window only looks out at my neighbor’s driveway, so no consolation there. Still, I set about adapting to kitchen- less life. I ate bowls of cereal and peanut butter sandwiches. It was only temporary. I could do this.
The roar continued for over a week but, finally, finally (ta-da!) the rescue chief pronounced the floors dry enough to put things back together. The fans stopped and the quiet was so beautiful, I wanted to cry. (Yeah, that’s why I wanted to cry. Let’s go with that.)
And that’s where I am now, standing solidly on the subflooring with specs in one hand and my insurance adjuster on speed dial. I have a lot of sawing and ham- mering and sanding and staining ahead of me, and I’m hoping it will all be done in time for me to put the tur- key in the oven for Thanksgiving.
But it’s OK. I can do this.
