“Ah, Tío? Tía? I think there’s a problem in the bathroom.” 

When our nephew delivered this ominous message, I went upstairs to check.

There certainly was a problem. The floor around the toilet was wet, and the rug in front of it was sopping. 

And it wasn’t because the toilet had overflowed. There was clearly a leak. 

The timing wasn’t good (is there ever good timing for a leak?). We had already received the first couple batches of arrivals for family Christmas, and this, the chief shared bathroom, was an important component in maintaining a happy family. 

To complicate things, another half a dozen or so people were due that day. 

To complicate things further, this was happening on Christmas Eve morning. 

Yes, while Mrs. P was working on the luscious nochebuena dinner for 18, with my barely useful assistance and Mami’s occasional directives, we learned we had a leaking toilet that required emergency work on a holiday. 

Mami’s “¿Qué pasó?” was quickly followed by her “¡No me digas!” when Mrs. P explained the problem. Then she counseled patience and told us everything would work out. Of course, she used the downstairs bathroom. 

Meanwhile, I sprang into action and made a sign for the upstairs bathroom: “Dear Family: We regret that we must declare the toilet in this room temporarily off limits. You will recall that when we suggested our home for the holiday gathering, we offered everyone beds and food and drink. We didn’t say anything about bathroom facilities. Sincerely, The Management.” 

Then, I grabbed the most important tool needed for a plumbing emergency: the phone book. 

The first plumber I called—the one we regularly use—didn’t have anyone available, despite the pleading in my voice. 

The second didn’t answer. 

The third had an answering machine that accepted my slightly more desperate message but was noncomittal. 

The fourth had a disconnected line. 

The fifth had a real live plumber on the other end. Apologizing profusely for calling on Christmas Eve, I explained the problem: we had a houseful of family, more was on its way, and we had a serious infrastructure issue. 

He promised to be over in an hour or so. 

When he arrived, he dismissed the trumpet fanfare with a modest wave of the hand.

Clutching his toolbox, he trudged up the stairs to diagnose the problem. 

Soon after, he emerged. A whatchamacallit valve on the whoosit pipe had rusted and now no longer closed (or opened? I don’t know! Dammit, Jim, I’m not a plumber, I’m a doctor! [well, I’m not a doctor, either]) when the toilet flushed, causing the leak from the incoming water supply. He showed the offending part, which was, indeed, orange with rust.  Fortunately, he had a replacement in his truck. 

As he returned from his truck and resumed work, hopeful family members began drinking coffee and tea again, while Mami shuffled into the kitchen, arriving ten minutes later, to give Mrs. P her State of the Pernil Message, part 10. 

Soon after, Our Hero came downstairs and pronounced the task accomplished.

Dodging the rush of traffic heading up the stairs, he wrote out his bill. I gratefully gave him a check, handed over all the cash I had collected from Mrs. P’s and my wallets as a heartfelt holiday tip, and sent him on his way.  

And we were all relieved that the family Christmas had been saved. 

Mami, acting the part of a good materfamilias, reminded us that she had said it would all work out.  

And so, ere departing for parts Ohio for this year's family Christmas, I leave you with a little holiday blessing: 

Have yourself a lovely rust-free Christmas,

May plumbing sparkle bright.

May family queues at bathrooms never be a sight! 

Have yourself a lovely rust-free Christmas,

Friends here at OS.

May you escape a nasty Christmas bathroom mess!   

Happy Holidays everybody!

Words © 2009 AtHome Pilgrim.

All Rights Reserved.