Adventures in Suburban Homesteading

It had been an ongoing project to conserve water. A bucket in the kitchen collected discarded, mostly clean water: cups of leftover drinks from the day before, old tea-pot water, the final clean rinse of a glass, all went into the bucket. When the bucket was full enough but still light enough to carry, he would take it out to a large, covered trash can by the garage and dump it in. By that fateful day, the can was nearly half full.

She was planting flowers in the side garden and called for water. He grabbed the watering can and the four-year-old, thinking here was a job for the boy, to carry water to mommy.

He threw off the lid of the can, and recoiled in horror. The eyes, milky and dead, stared up through the sudden stench of decomposing flesh, the surface of the water greasy and unclean. His stomach contents rose to his throat, and only a conscious effort of will kept him from vomiting in his own driveway. The boy, innocent, so innocent, looked at his stricken father and asked, "What is it, daddy?"

He backed away, his hand out in an unconscious gesture of warding and denial. "Oh my god...oh my god..."

His wife rose from her crouch over the newly planted flowers, and seeing the shock and dismay in her husband's face started toward him. "Honey?" she said worriedly.

"Don't come over here," he said, bending to wretch, but still managing to keep control. When he rose, his eyes watery and blurred from the effort, he saw his wife, his son, and his eight-year-old daughter looking into the can.

The daughter, holding her nose, said, "Ew."

The son, holding the edge of the can, said, "Wow."

His wife said, "Huh. Squirrel."

He stood up straight, his face colorless. His wife handed him the shovel.

"Better get him buried," she said, "And hurry back. I want to get the spireas planted."

Adventures in Suburban Homesteading

It had been an ongoing project to conserve water. A bucket in the kitchen collected discarded, mostly clean water: cups of leftover drinks from the day before, old tea-pot water, the final clean rinse of a glass, all went into the bucket. When the bucket was full enough but still light enough to carry, he would take it out to a large, covered trash can by the garage and dump it in. By that fateful day, the can was nearly half full.

She was planting flowers in the side garden and called for water. He grabbed the watering can and the four-year-old, thinking here was a job for the boy, to carry water to mommy.

He threw off the lid of the can, and recoiled in horror. The eyes, milky and dead, stared up through the sudden stench of decomposing flesh, the surface of the water greasy and unclean. His stomach contents rose to his throat, and only a conscious effort of will kept him from vomiting in his own driveway. The boy, innocent, so innocent, looked at his stricken father and asked, "What is it, daddy?"

He backed away, his hand out in an unconscious gesture of warding and denial. "Oh my god...oh my god..."

His wife rose from her crouch over the newly planted flowers, and seeing the shock and dismay in her husband's face started toward him. "Honey?" she said worriedly.

"Don't come over here," he said, bending to wretch, but still managing to keep control. When he rose, his eyes watery and blurred from the effort, he saw his wife, his son, and his eight-year-old daughter looking into the can.

The daughter, holding her nose, said, "Ew."

The son, holding the edge of the can, said, "Wow."

His wife said, "Huh. Squirrel."

He stood up straight, his face colorless. His wife handed him the shovel.

"Better get him buried," she said, "And hurry back. I want to get the spireas planted."