Island Life: The Great Propane Race

Nine percent.

I just checked the level on our propane tank, and it’s down to nine percent. Just a few days ago, when I started this essay, it was eleven percent. Eek!

Propane powers our stove (both range top and oven), and also our water heater. One of the first things we learned when we moved from a city to this rural island was how different the utilities work out here, and what a bummer it would be to run out of propane.

(And how important it is to have the septic tank pumped regularly, but that’s another essay for another day.)

Lest you think this is about to be a complaint about our negligent propane-delivery company: it is not. This is something we have done to ourselves, quite deliberately. In fact, the gas truck has come by twice in the last month or so, and we’ve sent it away.

Why would we do such a foolish thing? Well, you see, we need to have the tank moved. And the tank-moving fellow made it very clear that the tank should be as close to empty as possible. Propane is heavy, and also, you know, flammable. The less of it that gets picked up and tumbled about on its way to its new location, the better.

So. As I write this, Tank Moving Day is two days off. Nine percent should be fine. Yep. Perfectly fine.

Sure.

I think I understand why the people who built this house put the tank all the way at the back, as far from the driveway as possible. Propane tanks are ugly, unsightly things; why not place them where the fewest people will ever see them?

But the problem with this arrangement became clear as soon as we (and by “we” I mostly mean my husband) began seriously putting in our lovely gardens.

You see, in order for the gas folks to fill the tank, they have to drag their big heavy hose from the truck right through our entire front yard, then around a corner, through a gate, and across a patch of weeds. The hose almost doesn’t reach; it has to be stretched tight, and most of the stretching has to happen while the tank-filler cannot see the garden.

This has done grievous damage to many plants.

(Incidentally, where the tank is currently is also right under both bedrooms; should something terrible happen, we’d be lucky to survive to even know about it. So, okay, safety issues are an important consideration. But…the garden!)

There’s a perfectly suitable spot right beside the driveway, at the front of the house. The (nearly empty) tank can be easily moved.

All we need to do is dig a fifty-foot trench for the new gas line.

So, this is what Mr. Gardener Man has been up to the last few days:

As you can see, our soil is pretty darn rocky. Being the optimist that he is, my husband is super excited to use all those rocks he dug out of the walkway to create more garden beds.

I can’t argue with that.

The other thing that will happen with the tank-moving is that we won’t have any propane at all for a few days. How many days? ::shrug:: Maybe one, or two, or three?

Sure, we can live without it for a little while. We can barbecue, or cook in the microwave or the toaster oven (or eat cold cereal and cheese and crackers), and bathe in cold water no wait that would be awful, we cannot do that. And what about washing dishes? Okay so, cheese and crackers, paper plates, and…maybe it’s time to join the newly reopened gym again?

(Amusingly, we joined the gym the first time when our water heater broke and it was a week or more before it could be repaired.)

It’s actually kind of impressive that we still have nine percent in the tank. Once this countdown started, I put off such activities as roasting beets, baking a new supply of zucchini muffins, cooking pork tenderloin–anything that was oven-intensive. I’m kind of a frugal hoarder by nature; this little gas feels like the edge of the abyss to me, though in all honesty, that’s probably weeks worth of showers, normal cooking, even laundry.

Still…I’m going to feel a whole lot better when that ugly tank is in its new home, full of propane, all hooked up and running perfectly. (And when the back path isn’t a deep ditch…)

Tick…tick…tick…

Edited to Add Postscript:

The tank is moved, it is done! The capable men came out and unhooked, hoisted, drove, lifted, and placed the beastie in its new location, then hooked it all back up (laying fifty feet of new hose in the process), tested everything, et–voila! We are now, once again…cooking with gas. (Yes I went there.)

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And even though, the night before the move, we both took showers, and we ran the dishwasher, and I roasted those beets after all…our final count was eight percent.

Whew!