A
LUMP UNDER THE LINOLEUM
Okay, it was an ominous lump under the linoleum. The kind you can feel, but only
with bare beet. A tiny ridge that sparks
a silent oh, crap, when your foot happens to land there: Something’s wrong, the floor shouldn’t be doing this. The thing was a few inches wide, located
in an innocuous space, right between the stove and refrigerator. Mostly I
ignored it, but once in awhile I said to Rob, “Shouldn’t we do something about
this?”
“Like what, Babe? You mean, tear out the entire kitchen floor?
Over a lump?”
Rob was right, of course. The linoleum
was coved and continuous and covered four rooms. So mentally I backed off. After you’ve lived in a house for a number of years, you’re bound to find
something that seems Not Quite Right. As long as that something isn’t making funny
noises, or breaking into visible pieces, or growing larger by the week, you
tend to think, Maybe we should do something about this. Someday.
But when you’re busy writing books, or
just living a normal, active life, Someday
has a habit of fading away and disappearing into Never.
Until something bigger comes along—like
a flood.
Like Noah, we had to pay attention to a
flood—when the washing machine backed up and discharged its water out through
the toilet, and I finally saw soapy water snaking around the corner and into
the kitchen.
“Rob!” I cried. “Come quick!” And moving about as fast as he usually does,
and I won’t say how fast that is, Rob came.
Together we attacked the overflow with
mops and buckets, and half an hour later Noah could have stopped building his
ark. But that’s not how life works.
The plumber we called to clear the
drains called an environmentalist to start an insurance claim, who in turn
called lead and asbestos experts to examine the linoleum and walls (the latter
“wicking up water,” they said ), who in turn called contractors to tear out
walls and flooring.
It multiplies. While you watch and consider backing away, the
list gets longer and people keep arriving. There must be a lot of profit in
overflowing washing machines.
Now, two months later, we know what
ELSE was going on. Under our kitchen floor a tiny pipe had sprung a small leak,
which not only damaged the subfloor, but also collected into a “lump” under the
linoleum. Eventually, the sneaky thing might have grown until Rob and I were
forced to take it seriously and “do something.” As most of you know, lumps anywhere are never
a good thing. Happily, the flood made it happen sooner.
But hey, it all worked out. Our kitchen
now has the world’s most beautiful hickory wood floor . . . a pale woodsy
background that set off an interesting collection of grainy streaks and dark
knots and little swirls, about which Rob and I keep saying to each other,
“Isn’t this beautiful?”
And nary a lump anywhere.
My latest book: “Revenge of the Jilted Draperies:
and other sweet-and-sour stories” now available through Amazon—or
autographed, through me: maralys@cox.net.
A ten-dollar gift for Christmas.
