...and this little piggy stayed home

Kristin - my friend since college, roommate for one year, and now just-around-the-corner neighbor - and I have a summertime semi-tradition of farming the market on Saturday mornings. (Translation: On the rare occasions when we are both available, we go to the farmers market together.) And on this past Saturday I was invited to farm the market with Kristin, her husband, and her mom, who was in town for a visit.

I had awoken that morning to the sound of pouring rain. Torrential, monsoon-like, get-your-rowboat-and-start-paddling rain. And thunder. Hoo, boy was there thunder. One particular crash was so loud and so immediately after a flash of lightning that I was sure we'd lost a tree somewhere close by. There was no going back to sleep after that. And there was especially no going back to sleep after I thought of my basement.

Ah, yes... The basement. The creepy, icky-smelling, old house, extra-basement-y basement.

I hate the basement.

No, scratch that.

I love and appreciate the basement for what it is. It's a shining (and by shining I actually mean "dark and dank") example of an old Michigan basement, complete with the sloped walls on one end. The stairs leading down to the basement are made out of old wooden boxes or crates of some sort, and to say they are irregular in size and shape would be putting it mildly. And on the way down, you have to duck underneath a rather awkwardly placed pipe. You should watch me carry the laundry down there. It's practically acrobatics.

OK, I exaggerate. But only slightly.

Anyway, the thing about my house's extra-basement-y basement is that it floods. Like, a lot. I first made this unfortunate discovery while doing laundry last year. Having put a load or two through successfully, I went downstairs to shift a load from washer to dryer and, after successfully avoiding the head-injury-waiting-to-happen pipe, was met by a rather significant pond of soapy water at the bottom of the stairs. I'll spare you the play-by-play; as it turned out the root of the problem was a clogged drainage system. And so all the water that should've drained out of the utility sink, through the pipe, and into the hole in the ground instead ended up all over the floor. (On the upside, the floor was dirty, so what's not to like about a little soap and water?)

So that's flooding problem number one. Sadly, it was not the last time it was to happen. However, I've since taken matters into my own hands and installed a lint trap on the end of the washer's drain hose. That seems to have licked the problem. (Famous last words, right?)

Enter flooding problem number two: heavy rain. Whenever we have really heavy rain, the basement gets wet. No big deal, right? Usually it's just sort of damp, you leave it alone for a few days, the water goes away, everyone's happy. I could never figure out where the water came from; it always seemed that the floor was wet in the center rather than around the edges, and so I blamed it on "seepage" - that it just sort of "seeped up" from the overly-saturated ground.

Rookie mistake.

As the heavens gushed their watery contents all over kingdom come in the early hours of Saturday morning, I sat up with a start.

Oh no.

The basement.

I decided I'd better go and see how wet it was getting, figuring I'd find a mildly damp floor, maybe a small puddle in the basement's low spot.

Ha ha. What an optimist.

From the top of the stairs I could already see the water. Not good. That meant it had already spread quite a ways. I put on some shoes - brown clodhoppers that really went well with my summer pajamas (because, you know, I'm always so fashionable... not) - and went down to inspect.

The sound of trickling water caught my ear. For all of the rain-related flooding, I'd never actually managed to be home at the time the flooding was occurring. Sure enough - I found the culprit. A leaky window. Since my landlord was out of town, I called my dad to talk through the issue and figure out what to do. Still in my incredibly fashionable ensemble of brown shoes and pjs, I kicked it up a notch with a waterproof windbreaker and went out - still on the phone - to inspect the window well. Which, as it turns out, is damaged. Which is another part of why the water was coming in at that particular point.

So, there you go. Mystery solved. But the basement was still wet.

Thankfully I'd left the bailing equipment (plastic cup and a bucket) down there the last time.

Anyway, now that I was awake and dreading the eventual basement bail-out (hey, wait - maybe I can get the government to do it!), I got on the computer and checked in with Kristin about the market farming plans. The rain let up a little while later, and so off we all went - me, Kristin, Dave, and Kristin's mom.

Now, here's the thing about being a teacher. Even when school is not in session, you still are one. Sure enough - as soon as we entered the market, a student and her mom came up to say hello. Figures! I really don't mind, but it does catch me off-guard when those things happen.

Sadly, the let-up in the rain was a false alarm. The longer we were there, the harder it poured. And when it's raining at the market, you really have to watch where you walk. Because there are these tarps, you see. The various vendors set them up to provide some shelter, which is great, but then they fill with water. And eventually, either via the laws of physics or at the prodding of a broom from the opposite end, they proceed to dump gallons of water onto the market floor, or occasionally onto an unsuspecting passer-by. I had a close call myself. Right in front of that student, actually. She called my name and laughed. I had to laugh, too. What else is there to do?

That's the thing about life. When it rains on you, you can either get wet or run for cover.

I choose to get wet. It's much more fun.