Wha ...? WTF!

Three days in Carmel Valley: reasonable golf, better food, and even better wine. I reluctantly headed east (home) to what I was told would be snowy roads and temperatures in the high teens. I pulled into my driveway and noted the “bowl” that surrounds the house was buried in snow, as were all the hills. I descended towards the garage and noted a piece of paper stuffed into the handle of my front door. I figured it was a propane receipt. 

I parked, walked around to get the “receipt” (the letter shown), and quickly saw it was not the standard propane receipt. I read the crumpled paper.  

DO NOT DRINK THE WATER!

For some reason this struck me as funny—so funny, in fact, that my giggle turned into a full “let go” and I attempted to walk past my convulsing stomach back to the garage. I’m unpacking when I realize I never use the front door—I would have had to find the “Alert” by accident. Shit.

The water supply was over-chlorinated and dangerous to drink. How long had it been that way? I know they don’t check it every day; in fact, they probably check it every month at best! It’s becoming less amusing. I haven’t drunk the water offered by the tap in my house for years. The smell, taste, and not-so mild warnings about the poisons that are “close” but have not reached critical levels had me arm the kitchen faucets with filters years ago. This past year I graduated to 5-gallon deliveries.

What the water resting in the toilets has done to the porcelain for years convinced me that “something wicked this way comes.”

I guess I needed to vent … what? Raggio vent? How about a call, a bright red/orange tag on the garage and door, an email alert like the ones we get about the weather? Nope, just a crumpled-up piece of paper stuffed in the handle of my front door that I rarely use.  

I love the mountains. It took some time to accept mountain realities and large doses of “Mountain Time”; on occasion, these absurd circumstances might bring an “Oh, fuck” on the coast, but here they just elicit a shrug, and a stuffed piece of paper warning of danger covers it. I just can’t find the anger, so I settle for a small head shake and a pat on my 5-gallon spring-water jug.