Yesterday we watched the plumber stick his whole arm, up to the shoulder, into a full septic tank and reach around feeling for a clog. Well, actually, I couldn't look, and the backhoe operator turned away and groaned, and my husband covered his face with his hands. Even after such a heroic act, the plumber did not find the simple fix we had all hoped for, and so we are moving to plan B, which requires digging up the driveway. After he delivered that news, the plumber climbed out of the stinky hole, rinsed off with the garden hose, and lit a cigarette. I closed the windows on the septic tank side of the house. This morning, after returning from the bathroom in the garage (we have another septic system, luckily) my husband said, "I still can't believe he stuck his arm in there. I couldn't have done it." I washed my hands, again, and then thought about the time the same handsome plumber cut the cancer off his face and stitched himself back up. He didn't do a bad job. Some people are tougher than others. Some people really work for a living. My husband put plywood over the hole in the yard and said the septic might not be fixed until next week. The plumber has to take his daughter to Juneau to have her wisdom teeth pulled. He'll pay to make sure she has it done right, with the least pain possible. When she's better, he'll be back to work. Sometimes I think I should write country songs, although I've never heard one about a plumber.