Reason to panic

It’s pouring outside and the sump pump is running

The sound wakes me at 2 a.m. It’s like there is a grinding conveyer belt in the basement. The treadmill?

That’s all I can think of. The last person to use it must have left the track going.

Downstairs, I find the treadmill is not running, but the sump pump is

Wait, THE SUMP PUMP IS! That hasn’t cut in years and it is a sound that strike panic.

Are we flooding? Will the water rise that high?

I go outside to check, find myself in the middle of downpour, and then begin looking for a long piece of wood.

Not to build an ark, but to clean some leaves out of a ditch that runs parallel to my property.

Before continuing, let me outline the perimeter of my yard: to the south is a stand of very mature maples trees, to the north and west are deep ditches, and to the east is my father-in-law’s wood pile.

So every fall, the leaves from the very mature maples to the south find themselves in the ditches to the north and west, and I’m tempted to grab the chain saw used in the east to clear cut the maples.

Because, when thousands of them are packed tightly into an overflowing ditch, the Maple Leaf — that symbol of a peacekeeping nation — becomes an impenetrable, Kam-like paste that clogs ditches, and occasionally during torrential rain, makes my basement flood. Hence the sump pump. Hence why, at just past 2 a.m. on a school night, I’m bailing leaves out of the ditch (with a long piece of wood from the pile to the east because my shovel is locked in the shed).

To avoid waking my family, I don’t go back in the house to get a rain jacket or rubber boots or the key to the shed.

I stay out in my PJs and old running shoes, in a ditch paddling leaves like a gondola driver.

If my late father could see me now, he’d shake his head in disbelief and the following conversation would ensue.

Dad: “Steve, you should have had the leaves all cleaned out of the ditch. How long have you been living here? You know better than this.”

Me: “Yes Dad, I know. Dad: “And you should have your boots and jacket by the door, ready in case something like this happens. It’s December and you’re dressed like that in the middle of a downpour! And don’t get me started on the shovel.”

Me: “Yes Dad, I know.”

Dad: “Steve, I’m sure I taught you better than this, didn’t I? Seriously, what good is ever going to become of your lack of preparation, carelessness and inattention?

Me, after some hesitation: “I can only think of one thing, Dad.”

Dad: “Oh, I bet this is going to be good. Let’s hear it.”

Me: “Ahhh … Rightly or wrongly, it gives me stuff to write about.”

“Steve, I’m sure I taught you better than this, didn’t I?”