Eventually it had to happen.

     For years now, our neighbors’ septic tank has been living on borrowed time.  There is, after all, only so long a primitive rural plumbing system can go on accommodating people who, every four weeks or so, routinely eat their own weight in granola.  Nonetheless, for Don and Spirit, it all came as something of a shock. 

      Don and Spirit live about a quarter mile up the road from our place and, as some of you may recall, spend much of their spare time promoting world peace via simultaneous global orgasm.  To further recap, Don, who’s in his late seventies, is a former particle physicist with a thriving practice as a gas-channeling massage therapist, and Spirit, also a septuagenarian, runs a successful real estate business with an emphasis on feng shui property staging.  They make their own wine, Chateau La Foot, which is a little rough on the palate, perhaps owing to the fact that the grapes are stomped by naked elderly hippies with a very relaxed philosophy towards bathing.  Don and Spirit spend a lot of time in the nude, in fact.  The UPS guy generally leaves their packages at our house.            

     Before we get any further along, I should tell you that, as is true in many rural areas, septic tanks are a very big deal in our part of the world.  Around here, we discuss wastewater management at dinner parties the way that people in more civilized communities chat about grandchildren or home remodeling or European travel.  In Freudian terms, I guess you might say we’re stuck in the anal phase of our development.  Most folks around here have concrete septics, and a few flashy newbies, being conspicuous disposers, process their sewage in highly sophisticated mound systems, but Don and Spirit, until very recently, nursed along one of the old redwood tanks you still find every now and then, strictly illegal under modern sanitation codes, but grandfathered in under a kind of “don’t ask, don’t tell” arrangement, much like our grey water irrigation systems and jerry-built hot tubs and non-conforming chicken coops.

     For as long as anyone can remember, Don and Spirit have treated their old septic a bit like a finicky pet, or an elderly relative with complex digestive problems, and “go before you come” has always been the standard p. s. on their social invitations.  Once a week, Spirit faithfully mixed up a foamy concoction of homemade yogurt, brewers yeast and brown sugar to be flushed down the toilet under the hopeful but tragically misguided notion that such a potion would encourage the growth of benevolent, waste-devouring microorganisms.  Unfortunately, the long-term result of these ministrations turned out not to be the happily percolating leech field Spirit had anticipated, but instead a biological time bomb, which detonated one evening shortly after New Year’s, just as Don’s men’s support group had gathered into a circle to begun their weekly positive visualization session.

     What the group wound up visualizing that night was in fact so horrific, several of the men are now considering hypnotherapy in an effort to erase from their minds the terrible spectre they’d been forced to witness: a geyser of human waste, some of it dating back to the Harding administration, which had suddenly erupted from every drain in Don and Spirit’s beloved bay front cottage, a space that, only moments before, had been filled with the pleasant mingling aromas of lentil soup and patchouli oil.

     It is no accident that our local septic man has the nicest house in town, as well as the biggest boat, and the most frequent flier miles, earned on lavish vacations to Las Vegas and the Croatian Riviera.  If you’ve got an emergency relating to sewage, Stumpy Konatitch is your go-to guy, as proclaimed in the slogan hand-lettered in gold leaf on the side of his dazzling red tanker truck:  “We’re Number One in Number Two.”  But the situation at Don and Spirit’s was too much, even for Stumpy, who just shook his head sadly as he surveyed the damage while chewing thoughtfully on an unlit thirty-five-dollar  cigar.

     A week later, Don and Spirit’s front yard looked like the site of a Pompeian excavation, as Stumpy’s crew, with the aid of a 30-foot crane, dug the old tank out and replaced it with a new one.  In the process, the entire garden, including a remarkably verdant cannabis patch (which, coincidentally, had been located right on top of the leech field) was completely destroyed.  Spirit had briefly entertained thoughts of reclaiming the redwood from the old tank for use in the construction of raised planting beds or even a new hot tub, but the tank, once drained of its contents, had about as much structure as a 12-hour pot roast.    

     On Inauguration Day, while the nation’s luminaries were celebrating in D.C., Don and Spirit threw a little inaugural bash of their own to welcome the new septic tank and bid a fond farewell to the old one, whose record of service had, despite the final catastrophe, far surpassed that of our outgoing commander-in-chief.  Don shed a few tears as he read a short tribute, but it was, by and large, a most festive occasion.  Old Grateful Dead albums played, tie dye-clad revelers danced, and Chateau La Foot flowed – all accompanied by enough black bean chili and sprouted bulgur to give the new plumbing a good breaking-in.  For once, answering Mother Nature’s call would not require a drive down the road or a discreet stroll into the bushes.    

     Although it was chilly that day, and a little damp, most of the guests opted to remain outdoors, rather than in by the fire. Unfortunately, there are some lingering odors that all the organic incense in the world cannot mask.