The water keeps on coming. And coming. And coming. This always takes me by surprise. The rain was 12 hours ago. Come on, not a drop has fallen since early morning. But my basement, the one room in the house that my wife has loaned me, keeps filling up with ground water. There, over in that corner, it bubbles and gurgles, making fun of the uselessness of a rowing machine without a bow or a stern. The water is acting like a lithe teenager without achy knees or a temperamental back, dancing and cavorting in my basement and maybe sneaking a beer.

I get a portable sump pump, connect it to a hose, and stretch the hose out the basement window. I shoot a stream of water into the front yard as the sun shines in mockery.

I’m barely keeping up. What a mess.

Where did I go wrong? Did I choose the road well-travelled when I turned right on Merle Hay? Did I say no to the gift of imperfection because I wanted a more perfect gift? Did God close the door and then slam shut the window, forgetting I was still in the room?

Got me.

My wife is out of town, so I call my son to help me haul the water-sodden carpet up the stairs and into the garage. It weighs 3 million tons. We slide and push and pull and grunt and curse, until the rug sits dead on the floor of the garage, bleeding water. We collapse beside it. Co-conspirators in its untimely death.

I lay back on the wet carpet, feeling old.

My grandpa was old when I knew him. He and I lived together for awhile. He had diligently cared for my ill grandma for years and now he was single for the first time in over half a century. When he woke in the morning, I could see him through the bathroom door, his suspenders still attached to his ironed pants, his white union suit unbuttoned to his waist, as he shaved with a straight razor. A risky endeavor for even a young man without wrinkles.

All clean and shaved, he came into the kitchen and poured his black coffee into a cup which he carefully set in a shallow bowl. He then dumped a portion of the coffee into the bowl and dipped his toast.

He talked for the first time that day.

“Joe, did you see that dark-eyed, dark-haired woman on TV last night?” he’d say. “She was a beauty.”

And he’d smile with joy at the wonderful experience he had last night. The unexpected opportunity. A dream fulfilled.

I had not a clue who he was talking about. What dark-eyed, dark-haired woman on TV? I didn’t see a woman who looked like that.

Day after day, he would mention another “beauty” that he had seen. Another breath-taking opportunity. Another transcendent experience. A dark-eyed, dark-haired woman in the flesh.

One day his young friend, 10 years his junior at 84, came to visit. They laughed and talked and ate homemade cookies with candy bits cooked into the dough. A wonderful afternoon.

Afterwards he said, “Joe, my friend is a beauty. I love her dark hair and dark eyes.”

Trust me, this friend never had a dark hair or a dark eye in her life. And she was certainly iron gray at this point.

I was such a dope about this until long after his death. All women were dark-haired and dark-eyed for my grandpa. Why? Because he was eternally in love with my grandma, duh, a dark-eyed, dark-haired beauty. He missed her and saw her in every woman he met.

It was just a matter of perception, I guess.

Perhaps this perception thing will work for me as the water rises. So I climb up into the attic and find a box of old toys. Tucked in at the bottom of a box is a little kid’s boat. All three of my kids played with this boat in the bathtub. Why not? I go back down to my basement. I put the boat into the water. Give it a little push so that the water laps around the edges.

There you go. A delightful bathtub. In my basement. What a joy. Isn’t this great?

Well . . .  that was a dopey idea. What was I thinking? Now, I have a basement full of water AND I miss my grandpa.

My grandpa died a long time ago now. He was nearly 99 at the time. But he wasn’t done living, he told me shortly before his death. Really? 99 years isn’t enough? That’s after he remarked about the beautiful dark-eyed, dark-haired nurses in the hospital. Of course. I didn’t realize until I became an old man myself that he’d found his heaven long before his death.

May we all be so lucky.

Now, do you have an extra sump pump?

Joe