THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, May 5, 1996 TAG: 9605040104
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 25 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Letter
SOURCE: BY G.D. LEWIS
LENGTH: Long : 107 lines
Moving to the country for quiet - survival
Inching along a thoroughfare in Virginia Beach during rush-hour traffic, my husband turned to me and pleaded, ``Why don't we sell the house and move to the country? I hate living here. At least if we moved to the country things wouldn't be so hectic. Besides,'' he added, ``we can't even use the water to wash the car or water the lawn.''
``I know,'' I agreed. ``Restrictions. Restrictions.''
Just the thought of moving to the country and enjoying the quiet, simple life sounded too good to be true. We started looking for a perfect spot the following weekend. It didn't take us long to find it. Ten acres in the wilderness. There was only one neighboring house for as far as the eye could see.
It was some time before we sold our home in Virginia Beach, but by then, the one neighboring house in the country had grown to four, complete with dogs, horses and flies as huge as my pet Cocker Spaniel. I admit I was wary, but my husband's smile reassured me.
``We still have lots of room,'' he said.
I had to agree. On either side we were flanked by huge pine and poplar trees - and in the rear, almost eight acres of trees, holly bushes and an assortment of other foliage. Only a narrow dirt path that ambled along the distant front of the property could bring unwelcome intruders close to our paradise. Once we signed the papers, I turned in my notice at work in order to make the necessary preparations for our big move.
It wasn't long before I realized that living in the country wasn't going to be quite so simple. Since our property was far from any city of any size, we would need to have a septic tank and well installed. My new neighbors were glad to suggest several people who could do the job. Since I had no experience with this, I relied on their advice - which eventually led me to the county courthouse. The first thing I learned was that I had to pay for a permit for everything that needed to be done. Fifty dollars here, $75 there. Before long, Virginia Beach didn't look so bad.
Yet things were starting to come together. At least, that's what I thought - until the man installing the septic tank told me he couldn't put the tank where we'd agreed. ``Trouble with the soil,'' he explained.
``Soil?'' I asked. ``What does the quality of the dirt have to do with putting in a tank?''
Even after he explained himself, I still had no clue.
The following Monday, I drove to the site to see how things were progressing. It was there I met a Health Department worker. He assured me the septic tank would be just fine where it was.
``You can still have the house back off the road, if that's what you really want. Only it'll cost you about $2,000 more for extra pipe and another pump.''
Needless to say, I found the idea less than appealing.
``One more thing,'' he muttered. ``It's about the well.''
I felt my jaw drop. ``The well?''
``Yeah,'' he said. ``It's going to be too close to the house.''
``Where should it be?'' I asked tiredly.
He stretched out his arm. ``Way back yonder, over there in the woods.''
I drove back to Virginia Beach swallowing Tylenol. I called the man installing the well and told him that the original plan was no good. It had to be back in the woods.
``Well,'' he said slowly, ``if you really want it there. But it'll cost you more than the original estimate.''
There was no doubt in my mind. ``Why does it have to be way back there?'' I asked.
He snickered. ``It doesn't.''
``I don't understand,'' I said. ``Then why did Mr. Jones say it did?''
I could hear him rustling paper over the phone.
``Well, let's see. According to the drawing, they have you figured for a shallow well.''
``Shallow?'' I asked, puzzled. ``I thought we agreed on a deep well?''
``We did.''
The Tylenol wasn't working anymore. ``What am I supposed to do now?''
``Off hand, I think you should go back to the county and tell them you decided on a deep well.''
After we hung up, I called the county office again and told Mr. Jones I wanted to have a deep well installed.
``We'll have to schedule another appointment to look at the property again,'' he informed me. ``That means you'll have to pay for another permit.''
``Naturally,'' I groaned.
Three weeks later the well was installed. Only thing left to do was have the water tested. But the water couldn't be tested until the home was in place and the electric lines had been installed and inspected, ``Cha-ching!''
Our life savings were slipping away faster than if we'd made a bad trip to Vegas.
Finally everything was completed. We had a cozy little home, 25 miles from the nearest town, with electric and water. At least, we had electric and water until the first snow came and took it away. The lights, the furnace and the running water.
Cold, miserable and far from squeaky clean, my husband and I climbed into his truck and headed for Virginia Beach - the nearest place we could find a kerosene heater. We stopped at a friend's house and showered before returning to our rustic home.
I held a flashlight while my husband wrestled the kerosene heater to the ground trying to put all the pieces in place. He grumbled, complained and occasionally swore. Then he dropped his screwdriver and yelled, ``What in the hell possessed me to move all the way out to this desolate place to begin with?!''
I turned off the flashlight and replied, ``Because life is going to be so simple here.'' by CNB