Well of Lies Read online

  “What are we eating today?” he’d ask wryly before joining them.

  McLeod liked to be with the boys and he liked to share a drink with them, especially with Frank, who was developing his own serious problem with alcohol. But if the boss was partial to the bottle, he mostly kept it under control. It didn’t seem to get in the way of his work although Stan said he had to drive him home one afternoon to sleep it off. Still, the town’s lights stayed on and the water flowed.

  —

  In the 1930s, Walkerton drew its water from natural springs on the southwest side of town. Seven wells, dug about two metres across by three metres deep, tapped the springs to quench the town’s thirst. So crystal clear was the water, you could see the bottom of the wells. The water naturally bubbled its way upward, overflowing into a large, open cement reservoir. (After one of Percy Pletsch’s cows fell in and had to be hoisted back out, they covered the reservoir with chicken wire.) The slight elevation of the location allowed the water to flow naturally into town. For firefighting use, the town installed a huge steam-pump and boiler, which was constantly fired up just in case. When an alarm came in, the operator, who was always on standby, would turn on the pump, which was later replaced by an electric model. In July 1947, six people came down with typhoid fever. Suspicion fell on the drinking water. It wasn’t the first time bad water had been blamed for illness in the town. In May 1902, people suspected the water in four cases of scarlet fever. The second time, however, samples were sent to Toronto for analysis. The tests turned up contamination. Doc Robbie Robinson, a local physician who had been practising in Walkerton since 1925 and had skis attached to the front of his car for winter driving, ordered all drinking water boiled before use. The municipality cleaned the reservoir and added chlorine to disinfect the water. It was time to start looking for a better source. In 1949, the town’s first deep-drilled well was sunk, followed by Well 2 three years later. The springs were abandoned to spill their once precious cargo into nearby Silver Creek.

  The new deep wells were good producers, but there was one major problem: the water was so hard, you could almost walk on it. Taps rusted out, toilet bowls and bathroom sinks stained an ugly yellowy-brown. Kettles had to be thrown out. Women complained of discoloured laundry. The water was also hazardous for infants because of its high level of nitrates, which can cause blue-baby syndrome, a condition in which the blood is deprived of oxygen. As a result, many homes used cisterns, tanks that collect soft rainwater, for washing or bathing. Others drew from their own wells for drinking. In the hot, dry summer of 1955, taps in the higher part of town ran dry. The recently formed PUC issued an urgent appeal for conservation. Watering lawns and gardens was banned. Kids’ wading pools stood empty. It was obvious the town needed a more secure supply, so a third deep well was drilled in 1962, this one on the northwest of town. However, Well 3 was never a great producer and so, once again, the search began for a new source. The search might have ended with Well 4, which would’ve entailed tapping Otter Creek to the southeast of town. But enthusiasm for the site quickly waned when it was noted the creek was just downstream of Mildmay’s sewage plant, and the well was never drilled.

  According to the old adage, “You sink a well where there’s water.” Well 5 was sunk in 1978 near the old springs that once supplied the town, across the road from the PUC workshop. At last, the town had found a good source of soft water. Percy Pletsch, however, was none too pleased. Pletsch was a chiropractor. He also kept a small herd of Aberdeen Angus cattle and some ewes on a piece of land abutting the Biesenthal farm just outside town. The property on which he was born and raised had been in the family since the turn of the century. For water, they had always used their own well outside the farmhouse. Pletsch considered himself something of a connoisseur: he reckoned that his well gave the best-tasting water around. Pletsch was puzzled when, without any warning, a company showed up one morning and drilled Well 5 just outside his property fence. He figured it was crazy, given the low-lying ground on which it was situated. Just another well in the swamp, he thought. But puzzlement turned to upset when his own prized water lost its taste. He was disturbed enough to write Ontario’s Ministry of the Environment.

  “The water tastes and smells like swamp water,” he complained.

  Ministry officials came out and ran some tests. They did find that Well 5 was having a minor impact on Pletsch’s well in terms of quantity, but dismissed his taste complaint. Nothing had changed in its quality, they said. Pletsch’s palate begged to differ. As far as he was concerned, his water was no longer drinkable. But his complaints were the least of the PUC’s problems. The utility had hired a consulting engineer for the development of the well, but manager Ian McLeod had given the go-ahead for its construction before the ministry had issued a permit. Despite their normally easygoing approach, this infraction struck the bureaucrats as direct defiance. They were furious. At an unusual meeting attended by the town mayor, senior ministry people reamed McLeod out. They even threatened the PUC with prosecution. McLeod was none too happy about the dressing down but, for once, kept quiet. Having made their point, the ministry officials proceeded to deal with their requirements for approving the well.

  All groundwater, or water found underground, starts out with rain that percolates slowly downwards on its way to an aquifer, in essence a sub-surface stream. In the process, the soil and gravel above act as a marvellous biofilter, an efficient strainer of impurities and contaminants, such as bacteria. For that reason, deep-well water, the prevailing wisdom went, is as pure as it gets. Which is essentially true, unless the overburden, as the layer above the aquifer is known, is highly porous or very shallow or there are cracks in the rock that allow water from the surface to find its way directly into the below-ground channel. Then again, as far as deep-drilled wells go, Well 5 wasn’t very deep. The limestone aquifer it tapped lay under bedrock covered only by about 2.5 metres of porous overburden. The water that fed the well flowed from two main veins at 5.5 and 6.5 metres below the surface. Not surprisingly, tests turned up signs of contamination, perhaps from the adjacent Pletsch farm. As a result, the ministry approved the well on condition that the water be properly disinfected and its quality closely monitored. It also recommended the town establish a protection zone around the well, perhaps by buying Pletsch’s farm, to avoid agricultural or other pollution in the area. It also suggested the town keep searching for a better source of water, although it agreed Well 5 could act as an interim supply. The PUC accepted the conditions. A few months later, the ministry issued a permit, four days after the well had begun supplying the town with highly valued soft water. As was customary, none of the agreed-upon conditions were stated on the well’s certificate of approval, which was filed someplace and quickly forgotten. Nor did the ministry do much to ensure the conditions were being met. Responsibility for vulnerable Well 5 was left entirely to the PUC. No one from the town ever did talk to Percy Pletsch about buying his land or otherwise limiting his farming activities. Within a couple of years, he sold the property and moved on, leaving the well he had once prized so highly to new owners. Although initially intended only as a stopgap, Well 5’s soft water proved irresistible and it soon came to be seen as a permanent source.

  —

  In 1988, Ian McLeod prepared to retire. Stan Koebel, the foreman with a total of sixteen years experience under his belt, seemed the natural successor. McLeod, however, didn’t think him up to the job. Don Herman wasn’t too keen on the idea either. If anyone was going to take over, he figured, it should be Frank, the smarter of the brothers. Besides, Frank didn’t like taking orders from anyone, least of all from Stan.

  “Things are going to be different around here,” Herman noted to his soon-to-be ex-boss one afternoon. “Could have one brother a manager, one brother a foreman.”

  McLeod looked at him.

  “Don, it will never happen. Stan will never make a manager.”

  As always, McLeod had his own ideas. He lined up four out-of-town ap
plicants and recommended them to the elected commissioners as the best candidates. Stan’s name wasn’t on the list. Even so, McLeod’s qualified hopefuls never had a chance.

  “Stan’s a local boy,” said the commissioners, who also happened to be good friends with Frank Sr.

  “There’s not anybody that knows as much about the Walkerton public utilities as Stan. He’s worked here all his life. It’s the only job he’s ever had. Give him a chance.”

  There was another reason to want Stan in charge. Under McLeod, who himself hailed from Southampton, relations between the town’s works department and the utilities commission were, at best, strained. The crusty manager simply didn’t get on with his works counterpart, an equally obdurate German fellow who had been hired from out of town as an engineer. He’d try to tell McLeod what to do, but the stubborn utilities manager wouldn’t listen. Things got so bad that the works department wouldn’t tell the PUC before they dug up a street to lay a sewer or make other repairs. So a few months later, the commission boys would go out and dig up the newly repaired street to put in a water line. Kind of ludicrous, most folk agreed. That would all change if Stan took over. At least he and his dad got on, and his appointment would usher in a new era of cooperation between the works department and the utilities commission. It was a shoo-in. The commissioners interviewed Stan Koebel and, in their well-intentioned wisdom, decided to overlook his spectacular lack of formal qualifications or managerial experience. They did insist he take a front-line leadership course on handling employees. Stan took six management training sessions in far-away Toronto, then found himself at the helm of the Walkerton Public Utilities Commission. On his recommendation, his brother Frank succeeded him as foreman. McLeod had no say about either appointment. Don Herman shook his head but said nothing.

  One of Ian McLeod’s final acts as PUC manager was to officially open the town’s newest well, Well 7. He sent out invitations to the mayor and councillors for July 26, 1988, asking them to the ribbon-cutting at the pumphouse, with refreshments at the Hartley House to follow. At the bottom of the notice were two words:

  Souses welcome.

  Good Intentions

  STAN AND FRANK KOEBEL became certified waterworks operators without any formal training or testing. The Ministry of the Environment had begun implementing licensing in the late 1980s, and Ian McLeod had submitted the brothers’ names under a grandfathering program just before he retired. Automatic certification soon followed. No one checked to see if Stan had the minimum Grade 12 education, as stated on his application. The brothers were similarly upgraded again in the mid-1990s when the growing Walkerton water system was reclassified. From time to time, Stan attended educational programs in the form of conferences put on by various waterworks associations. But, for a man of limited educational background and intellect, keeping up with changing rules and technology didn’t come easily. Still, he was the boss. What was important to him was that the people around him considered him up to the job and that he didn’t disappoint them. A large bookcase stood against one wall in his office at PUC headquarters. An impressive collection of files and literature stocked its shelves: association newsletters, pamphlets, textbooks, ministry rules, and requirements pertaining to the operation of a waterworks, chlorination bulletin 65-W-4.

  He seldom read any of it. Even had he wanted to, it’s doubtful he’d have understood much. Especially the government stuff, which often is written in the worst kind of dry, technical jargon. Nonetheless, Stan made up for his intellectual and technical shortfall with hard work and a demand for perfection. One time, he had a new summer hire trim a tree. The kid worked for the better part of a day trying to get it shaped just so and figured he’d done a great job. He called the boss on over to admire his handiwork.

  “What do you think?” the youngster asked.

  “It needs one more cut,” Stan replied.

  “Where?”

  “About four inches above the ground.”

  If one of the guys hung a transformer on a pole and a wire wasn’t bent just right, Stan would make him go back up and do it again. No matter how straight it seemed, Stan always demanded something be moved a little this way or a little that. That was the way it was: Stan gave the orders and that was it. It had to be done his way. But at least the hydro wires were as straight and as neat as any town could wish.

  From his backyard, Mayor Jim Bolden watched as Stan oversaw the replacement of an aging hydro line that ran along the western edge of town. The line, owned by Ontario Hydro, was in terrible shape due to lack of maintenance. So the town bought it and, within two years, the PUC replaced it, poles and all, within budget. Another time, Stan oversaw the relocation of the unsightly hydro wires on Main Street to the alley behind the buildings. The project proceeded smoothly, with the cooperation of the various property owners, and, again, came in within budget. Stan obviously knew what he was doing.

  Still, the promotion from foreman was tough for the rookie manager. It meant giving up the hands-on outside work he enjoyed and was good at in exchange for paperwork, office management, and overseeing the budgets. Running a hydro and water operation, supervising staff, and answering to town council are complex tasks, doubly so for a man with rudimentary management and accounting skills. In fact, the brains behind the financial side of the operation were those of Big Johnny Bell, the long-time treasurer of the commission who had a college education in accounting. It was left to Bell, who had an affinity for numbers and still did McLeod’s income taxes on the side, to piece together the operating and capital budgets for the utility.

  While the hydro side of the operation made money, the water side had always either run on a shoestring or lost money. If a main somewhere broke and needed replacing, crews simply used whatever material was at hand for the job. For years, no proper records were kept so that when pipes and sewers were put in the ground, the location was promptly forgotten. One time, some genius ran a water line inside the sewer line. When they dug up Main Street not so long ago to upgrade the water and sewer systems, crews found wooden catch basins no one knew were there. Other times, the mains weren’t put in deep enough and would freeze solid in winter, leaving some residents without running water. To induce a thaw, PUC workers would run a current from the nearest hydro pole through the pipes, a dangerous practice that eventually became illegal. Walkerton winters were always a challenge for the boys, even if, mercifully, there hadn’t been a repetition of February 9, 1934, when the town was noted as the coldest spot in Canada: −56°F. One particularly harsh winter, after the ploughs had cleared the roads, the frost penetrated deep into the ground and the pipes froze. The PUC responded by heading to stores in town and in neighbouring Hanover, where they bought up every available garden hose. They then connected the hoses from homes that still had running water to those that didn’t. It was seat-of-the-pants, catch as catch can. But gradually, the PUC took a more professional approach.

  —

  To develop Well 7, the PUC borrowed $350,000. Other major upgrades to the water system were needed as well. That meant more borrowing. It didn’t make much sense to John Bell to be paying interest to the bank, so he devised a scheme to self-finance by borrowing from the electricity side of the PUC. In that way, the hydro side would benefit from the interest payments. Bell also figured it would make sense to start putting money aside to build a reserve fund so future projects could be done without borrowing. Stan made the pitch to the commissioners. They thought it a great idea and approved it. Year by year, the reserve fund grew. The part-time commissioners – two elected officials and the mayor – were suitably impressed. The finances were in order, the utility was well run, and, perhaps most importantly, Walkerton had pretty well the cheapest water rates in the area. In the battle among small towns to lure new residents, business, and industry, cheap water is a major selling point. At one time in the early 1990s, Stan toyed with the idea of putting in usage meters as a way to generate revenue, which could then have been used to look for better water
or to upgrade the system. Other towns were going that route both as a cash generator and as a conservation measure. The more it costs, the less people use, as they cut down on the waste that has made Canadians among the highest per capita users of fresh water in the world. The idea went nowhere. Stan figured massive rate increases or meters weren’t wanted, so he never formally proposed them and no one offered. Instead, there were a few small rate hikes over the years that financed refurbishment of the town’s two water towers and provided some money to upgrade parts of the distribution system. Walkerton residents continued to enjoy cut-rate water.

  Managing a motley crew of outside workers also brought its challenges. Stan became more demanding. The two women in the office found him harder to get along with than his predecessor, and the atmosphere was often strained when he was around. Dealing with Frank, who along with a stubborn streak had never thought too highly of his big brother’s abilities, was especially difficult. Over the years, Frank had developed a strong, hands-on familiarity with the job, and when it came to the water end of things, Stan seemed to rely heavily on his advice. Not only did Frank have the intellectual edge, he also had a natural touch with things mechanical. It didn’t seem right to him that he should have to play second fiddle just because Stan was older and had arrived on the job a few years earlier. It especially bugged him when Stan, who always began his days early, would show up at the PUC shop first thing in the morning with a clipboard and pile of papers looking, at least in Frank’s mind, altogether too self-important.

  “I can’t work with my brother,” he’d say to one of the other guys.

  Frank made up for being the number-two man by working overtime, often taking home more money than Stan. Frank also had a penchant for giving orders, evident even before he became foreman. He brooked no challenge to his authority. Al Buckle didn’t seem to mind much. It was March 1992 when, in his late forties, Buckle got a job with the PUC as a general labourer after years in the construction business. He cut the grass, pulled weeds, dug post-holes, and fixed water leaks. As Frank’s helper, Buckle did as he was told, and that was only as much as he needed to know. He put up with his foreman’s alcohol-induced irritability on the job but shared friendly beers with him when the volunteer firefighters crossed the road from the fire station opposite the municipal offices to Rob’s Sports Bar and Roadhouse. At work, sometimes Frank would tell him to get lost. Buckle did. Sometimes Frank’s speech would be slurred. Buckle took it in stride. He didn’t complain when he showed up at work dressed in fairly good clothes only to have Frank order him into a muddy trench he hadn’t expected to be digging. At the wells, he watched the way Frank did things and copied them. From time to time, he was told to take chlorine measurements or fill out readings on the log sheets, something he was not legally allowed to do. He did as told. He said nothing when Stan or Frank changed the numbers. Both were qualified operators and Buckle didn’t ask any questions. But it was nearing the end of the road for Don Herman, who felt he could no longer please either brother. Little more than a year after Buckle joined the PUC gang, Hermy slipped into retirement, a little bitter at the way the brothers had treated him in his final years.