“Barb,” said he with urgency; he who shares my space, my life, and seldom my opinion. “What’s this?”

Barb turned from her desk, from working on a Christmas letter.

What was that?

“That” was water; water into which I stepped. Water bobbing suds bubbles, slipping along our acacia wood floors from the guest bathroom where, without concern for its surroundings, the washer spun a spin cycle and sent its spent water to the guest-room carpet, to the wooden floors of a hallway, entryway, office, around the corner to the kitchen, and a few feet into the living-room where a dog-bed and the edge of a large wool rug, by their absorbent natures, slowed it progress.

“Quick!” said he who stopped the washer cycle.

“Call Housekeeping!” We are so very lucky to live where help is available. “Grab Towels!” We said, running different directions for stacks of them, throwing them to one another. 

“No, Scooter! No towel! Scooter! Leave it!”

We urged our pup away from playing in the fount of fun; we fell to hands and knees, sopped suds, soaking stacks of towels of various sizes. By the time help arrived, any water willing to be located had been sponged up; legs of an old milk bench and of two curio cabinets had been boosted off the floor with small, dry towels. Stacks of stuff tossed on the tops of guest-room twin beds. The Persian carpet from my office—where now, as I write, my desk chair rolls around with a will of its own, like a rink-skater, on bare wood—the carpet upon which the chair is usually anchored, and its pad, each hang over the balcony rail, dripping evidence, declaring to all who walk on nearby sidewalks that there, in that place behind the carpet-draped railing, stands a story of sudden urgency, of senior citizens suddenly spry, scurrying to lift and relocate items undisturbed for three dry years, mopping up, wiping up, catching up with water wending its way on wooden floors. 

The fabulous Facilities team arrived and assessed the situation: 

“Oh, my.”

They delivered a dehydrator that cycles sound similar to a tugboat running through sea swells. It’s comforting, that sound, knowing that it woos water to itself. A neighbor’s washer works on our towels.