Snuggled in warm flannel sheets, I drifted into a peaceful sleep until a piercing alarm jolted me into the dark reality of midnight.

I threw off my cozy quilt, leaping out of bed and unfortunately colliding my shin against the edge of the bed.

My husband, the champion of deep sleep, stirred in surprise as I flipped on the lights. “What’s going on?” he asked, bewildered.

“Get up! That awful alarm is blaring from outside. I think it’s the septic system!” I shouted, quickly donning a bathrobe and hurrying down the hall.

With flashlight in hand, we pulled on our boots and coats, stepping out into the fresh layer of snow that had fallen throughout the day. A fierce winter storm had been battering our island for three days, and the strong winds had snapped branches from the fir trees.

Navigating the steep path to the tank was treacherous, with windfall concealed beneath the thick snow.

The alarm persisted, sending my nerves into overdrive. I shouted, “Great! I’m destined to meet an embarrassing fate, tripping over hidden dangers and rolling into a pit of sewage!”

When we finally reached the control panel, I flipped a switch. A strange gurgling noise followed, and the alarm fell silent, bringing a moment of peace.

“Wow, I’m impressed!” my husband said, still half-asleep. “How did you figure that out?”

“It’s not rocket science. There’s just one switch, and I switched it from manual to auto.”

Our septic technician braved the storm the next morning to remove the tank lid. We watched as the float pump returned to its normal level, confirming that the automatic pump was now operational.

In the meantime, I received an unexpected lesson on septic system mechanics as unpleasant odors filled the air.

A particularly unforgettable moment occurred when a neighbor’s dog rushed over and began licking the inside of the tank lid.

I was on the verge of gagging, but I was too busy trying to blow my nose to rid myself of the lingering stench. “Eddie, could you please put the lid back on? I’m overwhelmed by the scent of sewage.”

I found myself sniffing all day, wondering if I had somehow transformed into a dog. I even attempted to mask the smell with my famous garlic pasta for dinner, only to watch as my husband enjoyed his meal while I stared at my own plate.

“Does your pasta smell like sewage?” I asked.

“Not until you mentioned it. Thanks for the appetite booster.”

This was the third mini disaster in a week, all stemming from our propane tank running dry during the fuel company’s holiday break.

They had an outdated gauge and were certain we would be fine until they reopened. They profusely apologized when they rushed over to refill our tank the day it was empty.

But the damage was already done.

Every automatic switch and pump in our off-grid system reverted to manual when the tank was empty. We were clueless about the malfunction until it manifested, as it had never happened before.

The day after our tank was refilled, I noticed the energy voltage meter in the kitchen flashing a low battery warning. We had an automatic generator starter that typically engaged as soon as the voltage dropped.

Instead of the usual cheerful hum, I was met with an eerie silence.

As the outdoor temperature hovered around 12 degrees, I bundled up for a trek to the battery shed housing our solar equipment. Sure enough, the generator was offline.

I couldn’t shift the controls back to automatic as I stood there, slowly freezing. I snapped photos of the readings and hurried back into the warmth of the house.

Our solar provider on a nearby island was closed for the weekend, so I emailed them with the photos. Jason, the owner, and I had enjoyed a 25-year business relationship. He replied quickly with a curious suggestion.

“I just saw your email and reviewed the readouts. I can’t identify any visible issues. Try accessing the Mate components and see if you can find the generator history. Just start pressing buttons—you’ll figure it out. That’s what I do when I’m stuck.”

Was he serious? His top technician had warned me two years ago to never go into the Mates.

Sunday afternoon brought clear skies. It felt as if divine figures had descended from above, guiding my fingers on the devices.

I surrendered to the moment and was rewarded with the soothing hum of the generator as it sprang back to life. Was this a revelation?

Feeling energized, I dashed back inside to share my success with Jason.

His response was instant. “Congratulations! This is the third time you’ve resolved an issue with your system. What did you do?”

“A moment of inspiration led me to the right solution. I can’t recall the details; I was merely the vessel for the message.”

He replied with a laugh emoji and an intriguing proposal. “Would you be interested in becoming a solar technician?”

Certainly under the influence of something!

Another less-than-pleasant experience occurred when I turned on the shower, only to be met with icy water from our on-demand hot water heater, which had also been affected.

Colorful exclamations escaped my lips as I realized the predicament.

Shivering by the fireplace, my frozen fingers dialed the plumber who had installed our system three years ago.

“Hey Mike, our hot water heater isn’t functioning in the bathrooms.”

“Is cold water running through every pipe?”

“Yes, but that’s not the issue. I don’t believe there are any leaks.”

“There are about twenty homes on the island without running water. It’s eight degrees outside, and pipes are bursting like fireworks. Sorry, but you’re low on the priority list until we can restore water to those homes. Please turn off the water to that heater.”

This task required climbing an extension ladder coated in frozen debris, which we couldn’t shake off. Inside, it melted and began to drip onto my clean floor—something I could handle.

Having traveled for years, sponge baths didn’t bother me, but they became tedious as I waited ten days for Mike’s call and eventually succumbed to texting him.

“Me again. I have a feeling this is an easy fix. Can you come by this week?”

I was surprised by his response. “I can’t ignore your intuition. I’ll come over Thursday, but no promises. See you soon.”

He arrived as promised and climbed the ladder to access the attic. I heard his muffled voice say, “There’s a flashing red light on the machine. Not sure what’s wrong, but I’m going to push it.”

“Do you have the manual? Oh, never mind, I never use them. Okay, it stopped flashing. Turn on the hot water in the bathrooms and let’s see if that did the trick.”

I rushed off, opened the valves, and was rewarded with a stream of slowly warming, then steaming water. Success!

Mike grinned as he poked his head out of the attic. “That easy fix is the only one I’ve had in two weeks.”

Another challenge arose with our refrigerator. I was unaware that the pilot light had gone out due to the growing iceberg in the back of the top shelf.

The accumulation of ice had been keeping the fridge cool—until it didn’t. While practicing yoga in the living room, I heard ominous cracking noises.

Please, not the fridge! I groaned, reluctantly dragging myself upright and heading over.

As I cautiously opened the door, I was astonished to find that the iceberg had calved, dropping onto the glass shelf and threatening to send everything crashing to the floor.

My husband walked in just as I stood there in disbelief.

“Get ready to catch another surprise,” I warned as I opened the fridge door. The block of ice began to tumble out. He caught it just in time and swiftly placed it in the kitchen sink.

Fixing the fridge required crawling on the floor. We glanced at the manual, which had only been read by the technician who created it—an unfortunate situation.

We persisted, pressing buttons until we succeeded once again!

Despite these small victories, my resilient “Can-Do-It Woman” spirit began to wane with each new challenge. I decided it was time for a solo pity party and sank into the couch as my phone chimed with a new message.

Your phone has been updated with a new memory tree of photos. A particular photo caught my eye—one I had never seen before.

A series of photos followed, all featuring the homeless man who had been living under the overpass in our middle-class Seattle neighborhood for two and a half years.

He started with a sheet of plastic laid on the cold concrete, a mummy sleeping bag zipped up to his face, and a small backpack tucked beside him.

The first time I passed by his still body, I worried he might not be alive until I saw his chest rise and fall.

“Okay, universe,” I sighed, realizing the message was unmistakable. Here I was, wallowing in a pity party in a warm home, surrounded by amenities this man hadn’t experienced in years. A stark contrast, indeed.

This man is no longer a stranger to the neighborhood. He has been embraced by the community, and his possessions have slowly accumulated.

He crafted a canoe that has never touched water, acquired an old laptop, and rides a donated child’s bike. Neighbors have provided tools for him to build a platform to escape the cold ground.

His chosen spot is along a street where parents park to take their kids to the zoo. As I walk by, I often hear children asking their parents questions about him.

Where does he go to the bathroom? Why is he sleeping there? What does he eat? Doesn’t he have family?

None of us have answers; he speaks to no one. He appears safe for now, but tomorrow is uncertain. A precarious existence is part of his daily struggle.

Over the course of the month, I learned to appreciate what I have. Each breakdown deepened this lesson, and I absorbed it fully.

No more pity parties for me! However, I do have a piece of advice if you find yourself facing home-related troubles.

Use your manuals as kindling and ignite your curiosity instead. Start pushing buttons and flipping switches.

A tried-and-true remedy from all maintenance professionals.

Thank you for reading if you’ve made it this far.