The Zen and Art of Spring Pump Maintainance

Three nights ago I heard the words that strike fear in most men – “We don’t have any water” (Cue Psycho Suite to capture the mood).  In an act of pure denial, I walked, then ran, from faucet to faucet with a naïve hope that the problem was isolated to one location.  In a matter of minutes my worst nightmare became a reality.

Fortunately, I took advantage of gravity and caught a few gallons from the basement sink before the pipes completely drained.  I pulled on some extra clothes and trudged down the hill to the springhouse.  I heard a rattling noise that even my untrained ears diagnosed as a bad pump.  I threw the breaker and decided it was a project for the next day.

The Problem

The next morning I had to go off the mountain to Mt. Airy to instruct at the community college.  During lunch, I stopped by a big box hardware store and dropped $222 on a new jet pump.  I figured to get back home around 4:00 pm and in a matter of minutes, maybe an hour or so, I would have water once again flowing through the pipes.  A plan.

It was upon arrival at home that a cascade of frustrating events began to wash over me.

First, my purchase was a different brand so none of the old fittings fit the new pump.  It was 5:30 pm.  All the local stores were closed.  So, we trekked 25 miles down the mountain to big box hardware #2 for fittings.  Spent 30 more dollars.  Then back up the mountain.

The fittings went on easily and I envisioned a hot bath before bed.  I wired the pump and bolted it to the floor.  I primed the pump by pouring water into a tiny hole - most went on my feet.  I was struck with the sudden realization that I was in a small wet building, standing in water, about to throw electricity to a pump that I hoped I had wired correctly.  Oddly as I reached for the switch I heard Wagner's Flight of the Valkyries and had a vision of people at my funeral whispering, “He should have called The Plumber.”

The Solution

I held my breath and flipped the switch.  The new pump whirled and I smiled a victorious smile.  Heck, I may have even pumped my fist.

The tank gauge wiped away my smile.  No pressure.  I retraced each step hoping I had overlooked something.  Threw the switch – whirling motor – no pressure.

My dream of a hot bath became a warm bath of water heated on the stove.

The next morning I called The Plumber.  Hearing the desperation in my voice he promised to be there “sometime after lunch.” 

By 5:00 pm I was growing more frustrated.  He arrived at 6:00.  In all fairness, it was “after lunch.”  It was 25 degrees with a sustained wind of 25 mph and gusts hitting 50.  He was terribly sick and sounded horrible.  I wouldn't have blamed him if he had left.  I fought off an overwhelming urge to hug him.

I followed him down to the springhouse, watched him open up the top of the pump, prime it, and confidently throw the switch.  No pressure.  He cocked his head and gave a surprised, “Umm.”  I knew we were in trouble. 

He messed with it for nearly two hours before concluding that air in the line that was keeping it from properly priming.  He suggested changing one of the fittings and drew a diagram on how to install it the next day - Saturday.  He said he planned to lay up and recover.  But he told me to call if I needed any advice.

The next morning I made my way to Sparta to the local hardware store around 9:30 am.  I bought the items on my list and saw 50 more dollars added to my credit card.  I told the guys this was my third trip for this project.  They glanced at each other and flash a hint of a smile.  "We are open to noon.  We'll see you after while."  They should change their customer service motto to, "Encouragement and Affirmation for the Do-It-Yourselfer."

I followed The Plumber’s sketch, got it all together and I hit the switch.  No pressure.  I called The Plumber and he said it had to be a bad pump – the one I just bought for $222.

Back down the mountain to the big box hardware.  Swapped the newest pump for another.  Another 25 winding miles up the mountain.  Hooked everything up for the third time and hit the switch (I no longer feared electrocution – at this point death would be deliverance).

The pump purred and the gauge rose.  I almost skipped up the hill and triumphantly twisted the kitchen faucet.  A stream of water about the size a pencil slowed to a drip and then stopped.

I called The Plumber again.  He walked me through checking the pressure in the tank.  I added air to the tank and then once again climbed the hill back to the house.

After 72 waterless hours, two bucket baths, four trips to three different stores,  200 miles driven, one plumber visit, two plumber calls and at least 50 trips up and down the hill from the springhouse to home, we had water.  I celebrated by washing clothes and taking a hot bath.

I had a very perceptive friend who said men are predators.  It was his position that we are wired to chase, catch and kill or conquer things.  In cases like this it makes perfect sense to call an expert and is probably cheaper in the long run.  One of the great mysteries of masculinity is how we can’t walk away from these projects.