Hippy Dreams

Sometimes--a lot of times, actually--I wish I were a hippy.

I don't know why, exactly. I suppose because the media glamourises it and plus I have these gold-tone memories of my very early childhood in the 70's, which, being that they're gold-tone, are, I guess, sort of glamorous, too.

Maybe being a hippy is not possible if you don't smoke weed and have "free love," and I don't want either of those things. Well, usually I don't . . . Anyway, I don't want to be that kind of hippy. But still. I feel like I would like to be one.

I have one or two or maybe even three skirts that could be considered "hippy skirts," but sometimes I wish I wore home-made, hand-made clothes all the time, that I designed myself, made out of scraps of fabric leftover or recycled from other things. I wish I knew how to wear bandanas and scarves so they didn't look goofy or pretentious. I wish I went barefoot all the time. I wish I actually made the jewelry I envision out of the pieces of driftwood and stones I collect in old tea tins during my rambles.

I wish I were a hippy with money (somehow) so I could get a diesel-fueled car and have it converted into a Greasecar and have a house powered by renewable and efficient resources, like that house at Seeds of Solidarity in Orange. Actually, I kind of wish I were those hippies (except they probably smoke weed . . . and grow it, too), and had a big organic farm that I knew what to do with. Or at least I wish I knew what to do with the defunct garden bed my parents started at the front of the house when they lived here, so I could grow stuff I could eat and also enjoy looking at. I wish I would make a rustic stone wall around it, out of rocks and boulders I dug out of the ground myself.

I wish I decorated with "found objects" more, and I wish I had tons and tons of wind-chimes and sparkly things for the sun to shine through, and outdoor furniture made out of gnarled pieces of wood, and I wish people would drive by and think I was super-New-Age, but anyone who stopped (because people would, for some reason, even though they don't, especially in New England) and hang out and talk and find out that actually I'm crazy about Jesus and am just trying to live out His Kingdom on earth by taking care of my part of it.

I wish I were informed enough to have really strong opinions about what's going on in the world, so that I could make statements like this young couple down the street who put a shopping cart with an American flag sticking through it, on top of their chimney. The Milk Guy (who knows about hippies) suggested they were saying that American capitalism is sending the country's money up in smoke. Probably. Anyway, I wish I were informed and opinionated and creative enough to make statements like that.

I wish the youth group from New Church would come over and we'd hang out around the fire-pit that I don't actually have but wish I did, and they wouldn't smoke either (even though a bunch of them do) but they'd play their guitars and we'd all sing songs under the stars and the trees and worship God.

Sometimes I wish I were a hippy.

And Now for Something (Sort Of) Completely Different . . .

David-of-Six says this post should instead be entitled, "Water, water everywhere, except the kitchen sink." He's right, actually, but I'm stubborn.

Back in June or something, the kitchen sink faucet started dripping. The Milk Guy came over for dinner one night, and after he had evicted the wasps that had moved into the grill (at some danger to himself) and had grilled our vegetables, I asked him, "Do you know how to fix dripping faucets?" He got a kind of roguish gleam in his eye, repositioned the water handle and said, "All fixed!" We both knew it wasn't, but it wasn't the hugest problem in the world, so I let him off.

My parents came to visit for a couple of weeks later in the summer and I asked my dad, "Do you know how to fix dripping faucets?" I got a similar response.

After my parents left, the dripping began under the sink. I couldn't find exactly where it was leaking from and figured I could manage with slight drips until my parents came home at Christmas, because who wants to fork out money for a plumber when it's not that big a deal? I put two plastic bins underneath the pipes, every so often bailing them out the back door.

After the Sixes moved in, the drips from the faucet were par for the course, and the drips under the sink had turned into torrents. Oh. The arm wasn't properly connected to one of the joints. That's easy enough to fix. We shoved the two pieces back together and the drips (at least the lower ones) stopped.

Then they started again. Not to mention the sink was clogging. David-of-Six replaced some of the piping under the sink. It didn't help.

On Thursday we (by which I mean the Sixes) called a plumber. The plumber couldn't make it until Monday. The kitchen was starting to smell. The sink was not draining. The dishwasher was backing up into it. Some of the other sinks were clogging up, too. "Pump your septic tank," Everybody said. Yesterday a guy came and pumped the septic tank. It was fine. Nothing was wrong with it. Fortunately. It was a good preventative measure, Everybody assured me. I'm sure it was. But the sink was still not draining, and it was still dripping. Also, now water spurts out from under the handle.

A friend called a drain-clearing company for us. They sent someone to us yesterday afternoon. He ran a snake down the pipes and wrestled with them for about two hours. There was, indeed, a clog. He removed the clog. In the meantime, he discovered that a pipe beyond the cellar wall had broken. Most of the water was still going down the pipe. Some of the rest of it (and its attendant sludge) was going into the insulation. Mmmm.

Licensing restrictions apparently prevented him from fixing the pipe. He was not sure he had removed all the sludge, but was afraid to try anymore, lest he damage the pipes further. He advised we call a plumber. The plumber, he said, could fix the pipe. The plumber could fix the leak. The plumber could fix the drips and the spray. Then, if the sink was still clogged, he--the Drain Guy--would come back for no extra charge and clear out the rest of the debris. He removed the piping immediately under the kitchen sink and turned the water off there.

So . . . we're still waiting for the plumber. Tonight we ate on paper plates. I lugged two-and-a-half days' worth of seven people's dishes into the basement and washed them in the lower level sink. While I did my laundry.

Grrr . . .

Today I was angry.

I don't know how to explain the anger precisely. I didn't feel like I wished other people had my disease or anything, but I was reading about factors that indicate risk for breast cancer and I realised that I hardly have any of them. And the ones that I sort of have, I barely have. I found a string of thoughts running like this through my head:

What? I'm supposed to use even less plastic than I already do? I've already thrown out my Starbucks travel mugs and I don't microwave with plastic.

I drink less than one to two glasses of alcohol per day. Probably per week. What are you talking about?

I'm being penalised because I haven't had children and I haven't breast-fed? And the reason I haven't is because I'm not married and I'm trying to live life the way God wants me to?!

(Delete swear words).

I feel really strongly about that last standard. If I could rewind and do this life again, I suspect I would still live up to it. I really believe sex (and child-bearing) is a sacrosanct part of marriage and should only happen within marriage. But the fact is, "really believing" it doesn't decrease longing, and it seriously ticked me off today that by honouring it, I may have increased my chances for this disease.

The fact is, though, that I've never really wanted to have children. And in reality, of course, that one factor probably has very little to do with my getting cancer. I'm not being penalised. I know that. My diagnosis probably has more to do with my trying to protect the environment for a while by drinking out of my Starbucks travel mugs instead of disposing of paper cups all the time.

Thanks a lot.