A few fun things happened in Marlinton this weekend. A play was put on at the Opera House. There was a farmer's market Saturday morning. Nearby, a Civil War battle was re-enacted. I was looking forward to these things (as well as checking out the Presbyterian church in the center of town), but I was in Charlottesville, VA, watching my little brother graduate from the University of Virginia. Casey and I checked out some of the MANY used book shops in town Friday afternoon, and I spent far more money than I should have. His fraternity put on a party for the families in town, complete with a slide show. On Sunday, fun times were had by all (especially the graduates--the bars in C'ville open at 6 am on graduation day), but I'll admit that it was nice to get back to Marlinton yesterday morning.
While the bars were in the oven, I decided to start a load of laundry, my first attempt since installing the washer myself. I was feeling pretty good about my housewife-y afternoon, so I tackled the dishes. It was then that I heard what I thought was water, outside the washer. I turned off the faucet and checked, but didn't see anything. Huh. Returning to the sink, I dunked my left hand in a bowl of sudsy water...and sliced the tip of my finger open on my one sharp knife.
Here's where the massive blood loss enters into the story. My finger would NOT stop bleeding. No amount of pressure seemed to do the trick, and I was bleeding all over the place. And since nothing is ever easy, it was then that I realized that the water sound I'd heard earlier was being caused by the hose coming out the back of the washer spraying water all over the place. Long story (and lots of bleeding) short, I figured out that someone at some point had jerry-rigged the thing so that while the washer would leak, it would be a CONTAINED leak, draining through a hole in the floor to the cellar below. Fantastic.
Finally, the blondies were ready. At this point, I had my finger wrapped in a paper towel and bound with masking tape. It was the only thing that seemed to work. I finished the dishes one-handed, cut the blondies into bars, and carried a plate of them over to Mr. McCarty's (a lovely gentleman who let me use his bathroom when we had no water). I assured him that the blondies contained none of my blood, and the bars got the Charlie McCarty seal of approval. I delivered the second plate, talked to the dogs who barked at me as I passed, and returned home for my first foray into hanging clothing to dry.