Getting pumped…

Living in town isn’t without its conveniences. Someone else handles the details of getting water to your house and getting waste water away from it. Here in the woods, though, I’m on the hook for making sure those things are happening from day-to-day. 

Incoming water was a major project last year – dealing with sand intrusion and raising the well pump, swapping out the filtration medium (twice), and battling an insect infestation. Today, I’m tackling a bit of preventative maintenance on the outbound side. Of course, by “tackling,” I mean I’m writing a check while someone else pumps down the septic tank and inspects the works. 

Growing up, “drain fields” were exactly that – large open stretches of ground where the drain tile was laid and we were strictly forbidden from planting anything other than grass or driving over with anything heavier than a lawn tractor. The drain field was sacrosanct. As a kind, I remember endless conversations about where, exactly, the boundaries of these fields were located. Here, though, the drain field runs directly out into the woods. According to the paperwork it’s eight feet down and all on the up and up, but I live in a constant state of paranoid that tree roots will invade the system and trigger the mother of all repair and replacement projects.

Of the many random tasks that go into keeping a household running, the triennial pumping of the septic tank is absolutely one of my least favorites, if only because of the nightmare projects it could trigger.  

My way of life shouldn’t be putting any strain at all on a system designed to accommodate a household of 3-5 people… but it’s now 23 years old, which puts it on the low end of the average septic system lifespan.

As my brain thrives in a world of worst case scenarios, I’m always expecting the worst possible news when they pump down the tank. Getting pumped shouldn’t be terror inducing, and yet here we are.