Powerwashing Can be Addictive

Beware! Caution! Warning!

To all my beloved family and friends, there is a very real danger lurking in many of our garages! I feel compelled to warn everyone in my email address box and I urge you to do likewise!

Powerwashing, it seems, is..... addictive! It's a sickness really. As powerful a sickness as any other addictive habit. As dangerous as any other compulsion. Here is my story:

It was a fine Saturdayy afternoon. I had spent the morning running errands and driving children hither and yon and as I looked at the remainder of the day before me I realized that there was not much demanding my attention. We had hosted a birthday party the preceding day for offspring number 3 and while entertaining the other mothers on the patio while our children frolicked in the backyard, I realized that the underside of our patio cover was in desperate need of cleaning. So I filled a bucket with soapy, bleachy water (my grandmother would be so proud!) and grabbed a couple of rags and a ladder and set to work. The backyard was shady and a gentle breeze was blowing. All was well with the world. And then my father called. His intentions were innocent enough. He wanted to know what the kids were doing (he obviously needed a playmate) and then he asked what I was doing. I told him. He offered the use of his power washer. I said something to the effect of “Sure, I guess that’d help.” That was my first mistake.

I figured if I was going to use the power washer to clean the ceiling and posts of the patio cover, I might as well do the cement floor as well. So while Dad set up the washer I started hauling furniture and toys off the patio. And then I figured as long as I was going that far, I might as well do the siding as well so I started taking down thermometers and decorations and wind chimes, etc. After about 30 minutes the patio and immediate area were striped and I was ready to start blasting away. Well, my Dad is not the type to simply hand someone a tool and walk away. No, no, no. There must be an instructional session. And a demonstration. And then a trial run. And sometimes some more instructions. And so on. So by now at least an hour has gone by since I originally began my patio cover washing. And now number one offspring needs a ride to work. So we break for that.

Now I’m ready to get started except it seems that I cannot get the washer started. I pull on that cord with all my might for what seems like an eternity. My arm is completely out of the socket. I’m sweating like a mule. I’m scowling. I’m frustrated. And my patio and half the backyard is a mess. I call Dad. He comes back (the man is prompt and reliable, I’ll give him that) and gets it started with two pulls. Show off. And by now number two son needs to be picked up from his friends’ house. Dad starts a second demonstration of proper spray techniques while I sneak away.

By the time I get back, Dad has washed half of the back of the house and a fair portion of the patio too but the patio cover is still disgusting and everything within 100 feet is covered in mud splatter. But I figure, hey, that’s okay, this baby can clean everything up in a flash. Or should I say splash? Anyway, I wrestle the power washer away from him only after lending him one of his grandchildren for the afternoon and I get cleaning.

What enormous fun! Within minutes I’m soaking wet. My glasses are splattered and I can barely see. But I don’t care. I’m quite sure that the dirt is being blasted away forever. A small gecko has been relocated to Connecticut and our chickens are busy trying to get their feathers to lay back down. I’ve blown a hole in a lawn chair – cheap piece of… never mind.

First the rest of the siding, then the patio ceiling, the concrete, the outside edge of the cover, the gutters, the window screens – yech! Hmmm…let’s get the patio furniture sprayed down and the picnic table too. Oh, don’t forget the dog kennel that the chickens are living in! And the grill. And the folding lawn chairs and the swingset – that cottonwood stuff is everywhere….. and so on until, blessedly, the power washer ran out of gas.

I ran to the shed for the gas can and emptied it’s contents into the power washer but, alas, I could not restart it. No amount of tugging was going to start that thing and in my heart I knew it. I struggled for a few more minutes until Sarah came out and put her hand gently on my shoulder. “It’s no good Mom, it’s over.” And I knew she was right. Sobbing, I disconnected the hose and used my inadequate, rusty old spray nozzle to clean off the power washer, wrapped up the cord and started to reposition the patio furniture.

Every now and again I’d glance over in the direction of the power washer, sitting there so majestically, so gallantly, it’s little engine ticking with the heat, glistening in the sunshine and I’d think “Maybe I’ll give it one more try…” “I’d really like to do around the side of the house…” “Would be nice to be able to clean out the AC unit…” “It would probably do a great job on the playscape and the shed (paint ball muck all over the place there)”

But perhaps tomorrow….Dad are you busy after church?????