Crap Floating in Your Basement on Christmas Eve

Note:

This is piece I wrote several years ago, and was reminded of it as another Christmas Eve has come and gone.  Enjoy. . .

We visited my son, Tim, several years ago at Christmastime.  Having recently entered the workforce, connected with a new girlfriend, and purchased his first home, Tim was excited to host his parents and younger brother and sister in his home for the holidays.  Although we weren’t staying in his home, we were spending time there, enjoying the holiday atmosphere he and his girlfriend had created.

     Late in the day on Christmas Eve, as we were relaxing and preparing to depart for the hotel to change for dinner at Tim’s girlfriend’s grandmother’s house, Tim and I walked down the wooden stairs to the basement to check on the source of some unusual noises we had heard.  As we approached the basement floor we both stopped short on the stairs and examined the landscape of raw sewage floating in a foot of water in his basement.  Apparently, the septic tank had backed up and emptied into the basement.

     Overwhelmed as I was at this sight, I didn’t know what to do or say.  If I had the “home-basement” advantage that day I would have known exactly how to respond: I would have immediately let loose a string of four-letter words which would have made a longshoreman blush.  And I would have kept at that for an uncomfortably long period of time.  Then, when I had exhausted myself, I would have finally retreated back up stairs and challenged my wife with the dilemma of what to do next.  And, I would likely have questioned why she hadn’t immediately come running to my aid at the first sign of a torrent of four-letter words.

     Tim may have uttered a single, four-letter word – I don’t remember.  But he immediately assessed the situation, and said, “Alright, we have to go right now to Home Depot and get a Shop Vac, a plug for the drain, a large bucket, and plenty of bleach.”  Off we went to Home Depot and returned with the items on Tim’s shopping list.  Upon our return we headed back down the basement stairs, into the belly of the (raw sewage-covered) beast.

     We began vacuuming the nasty water into the large bucket, and trundled bucket-loads up the cement stairs into the backyard in the pouring rain to dump them.  I felt a bit like Tim Robbins’ character in “Shawshank Redemption”, who, “. . .crawled through a river of shit and came out clean on the other side.”  After securing the drain plug, we liberally applied bleach throughout the basement.  Satisfied with our work, we headed back to hotel to clean up and dress for dinner.  Even given our challenges we were only a half-hour late for dinner.

     Reflecting on the experience, I was struck by Tim’s resourcefulness and ability to respond quickly to a crisis.  It is likely that instinct which has informed his career choice: he has become a paramedic.  It occurred to me that not only was I provided with a terrific story, but also one which can be shared with others as an object-lesson – a modern-day parable, if you will.  The lesson is this: In every life, it is inevitable that there will be crap floating in your basement on Christmas Eve – you simply cannot avoid it, it’s a given.  The key to defining you is how you will respond.  Will you stand at the top of the basement stairs and let loose a torrent of four-letter words, or will you quickly compile the list of items you need to get at Home Depot and clean up?

     I’ve asked Tim if he minds that I frequently use this parable (overuse, if I’m honest with myself) to illustrate the challenges of crisis management with others.  Ever the pragmatist, he responded, “It’s not a parable, it actually happened to me.”

Thanks,

B.S.

 

Christmas Crime Scene

Note:

As Christmas Eve festivities were winding down in our household, around midnight, I opened the front door to our house in order to step outside to turn off the Christmas lights for the night.  Imagine my surprise as a bird flew out of the wreath hanging on the outside of the front door and into our living room, flying frantically around the room.  Retrieving a broom from the garage I attempted to shoo the bird out the front door.  The bird didn’t appear to have any interest in leaving the premises, and instead shuttled between three or four different spots near the ceiling, including the lighted star atop our brand-new, extremely artificial Christmas tree.

Our cat, Jeffrey, roused himself from his nap, and began to watch the scene with interest.  Although he wasn’t taking an active role in my bird dispersal efforts, something about the proceedings seemed to register in his consciousness – something familiar – perhaps related to his nocturnal activities, as he spends every night outside wandering among the trees in our backyard.

I continued my fruitless efforts at marshaling the bird out one of the two doors now open (In the middle of an increasingly colder night).  Recalling that police sometimes helped to rescue cats stuck in trees (likely a Norman Rockwell painting I recall seeing), I reasoned that the police might be willing to help usher the wild bird out the door.  The 911 dispatcher kindly suggested I contact an animal control company, and helpfully provided me with a telephone number.  Recognizing that it was unlikely that I would be able to locate an animal control professional willing to make a house call after midnight on Christmas Eve, I instead sought advice from my wife.

My wife suggested that I Google “How to get a bird out of your house.”  So I did.  The five-step method designed to get a bird out of your house included, “closing doors to trap the bird in a small space,” and “turning off all indoor lights.”  We took those actions, and stepped out of the living room area.  Within several minutes we heard sounds of a scuffle, and, upon entering the living room, we encountered a crime scene which included stray feathers and the lifeless body of the wild bird.  Jeffrey was crouched nearby, monitoring the aftermath of the carnage that he perpetrated.

As we cleaned up the remains of the bird we marveled at the speed and efficiency of Jeffrey’s attack, and speculated as to how he had enticed the bird into his airspace; perhaps he had climbed the artificial tree stealthily and pounced, or maybe he had launched himself upwards from the couch and batted quickly at the birds, knocking the poor thing out of the air, and then attacked it on the ground.  His expression afterwards appeared to indicate to us, “Hey, this is what I do – I’m a professional – just leave it to me.”

Reflecting on the experience later, I decided that the advice the next person Googling, “How to get a bird out of your house,” receives should say, simply, “First, get a cat. . .”

Thanks,

B.S.