Home & Garden

The orange backhoe watched me from the bottom of the hill like a bloodthirsty shark staring up at innocent surfers before snatching off a leg and swallowing it whole.

But this was no man-eater. This was an earth-eater, with its sights (not to mention the driver's directions) set on the virgin soil of my backyard.

After more than a month of pretending that the puddles of smelly water were supposed to be there, that it added character and something for the eucalyptus tree to wage an aroma war with, My Lovely Wife and I finally came to a terrible realization.

The septic tank had to be fixed.

Over the coming weeks we had a parade of people poking and prodding our yard with metal rods, each one giving a diagnosis more aesthetically terminal than the last

The trouble with things being buried underground is that said ground must first be removed to fix the problem. And no matter how many times I crossed my arms and blinked really hard (a la I Dream of Jeannie), the smelly water, and the people promising they could fix it, just kept coming back.

We finally settled on a company, which I cannot name … let's just say it rhymes the Moto-Scooter.

They gave us several options, each of which made me want to cuss and cry.

The problem was that the system simply wasn't draining.

At first it appeared that replacing the field lines — the hundreds of feet worth of PVC pipe running like a crossword puzzle through our yard — was the only option. Then they suggested "aerating" the back yard, which meant bringing a huge truck into the back yard and blowing gusts of air into the ground in hopes of "shaking something loose."

This sounds made up … but true. 'Course, I'd have to transplant some 12 hydrangeas to clear a path.

But then we met Jerry.

Jerry believed it was our "T-joints" that were the root of all evil (and here I thought it was Yoko Ono). I didn't care what he called it. All I heard was "won't have to dig up your whole yard."

Thus the backhoe lurking in my driveway. Course I didn't stick around to watch the carnage. With a pathetic nod, I sped off to work like it was Corndog Day in the cafeteria.

As it turned out, my yard was in good hands.

Jerry was my shovel-totin' Odysseus, my hero. His ability to maneuver that earth-eater across a tangle of shrubs and trees was an inspiration to see … or so I'm told. He crushed nary a branch, nor a bush … save for one rescued azalea, but it was kinda ugly anyway.

They did a remarkable job (and no I received no discount for saying that). And yet I still wanted to cry. Seems it's impossible to dig a 10-foot long trench with a backhoe without leaving a few scars.

But when life gives you lemons … make a container garden. And at least now we can flush a toilet with worrying it'll show up in the shower.