The idea that it is important to have a backup has been drilled into most everyone’s psyches since the beginning of time.

The history of the British monarchy made it clear that the primary duty of a queen was to safely deliver an “heir and a spare.”

This understanding, the importance pf having a backup plan, was driven home to me when I was a little girl watching the Miss America Pageant on my family’s faux walnut Zenith console.

The MC would give a long explanation on the importance of the runner-up being able to fulfill the duties of the winner if she couldn’t serve her full term. Only years later did I realize this was code for Miss America becoming preggers.

I didn’t foresee gaining a deeper appreciation for having a backup until I had to deal with another sort of backup.

I was looking forward to Saturday night last week. I was planning to meet a friend for dinner then enjoy some great bluegrass music at a favorite venue.

I’m not sure why, but I experienced waves of cramps during the evening. It was too early for the enchiladas verde, my choice from the Wholly Frijoles menu, to work its way on my digestive system. I just hoped I wouldn’t need to run off to a two-stall ladies room at either the strip mall restaurant or the intimate music venue.

Fortunately, I was able to enjoy the evening of music and walk the dog when I got home. I then prepared to sit on the toilet until nature took over.

Not without equal measures of discomfort and boredom (I must have read the same article from the AARP magazine several times already), the cause of my cramps seemed to have passed.

As I turned the handle, something didn’t sound right. My movement wasn’t moving, and I wasn’t about to do what our country’s orange-haired bully-in-chief would do; blame DEI hiring (Diversity, Equality and Inclusion).

Last summer, I spent thirteen hundred bucks on a plumber’s visit. I accepted the idea that some maintenance expense should be expected, but I was not eager for a repeat expense. Besides, I had another, seldom used, toilet down the hall.

I tried to fix things first. I tried plunging, then pouring water down the bowl. Nothing seemed to work.

I  visited the small toilet in my powder room down the hall, and, like Scarlet O’Hara, delaying some of her distress until surrounded by the fences of Tara, I decided I’d deal with the problem tomorrow, and went to sleep.

Although, per my preferences, the crapper in the powder room is too low to the ground and the bowl is round instead of elongated, it fulfilled its purpose. I thought I would be able to clear the backup the next day, but it turned out not to be so easy. Two different kinds of plungers didn’t loosen things up and typical Sunday activities pulled my attention away.

No problem, I just continued to use the toilet in the powder room.

Monday, I had things to take care of. I showered in my master bath, adjoining my bedroom, and continued to use the toilet down the hall. On Tuesday, I went to Home Depot and bought some sort of super plunger, as advertised, assembled by disabled veterans.

I decided to take it apart and re-assemble the molded plastic device before sticking it in my toilet. I couldn’t. Apparently, it was defective.

I got used to nightly treks to the toilet down the hall. I left the light on in the powder room, so I could guide myself, in my sleep stupor, down the corridor.

On Saturday, a week after first rendered out of commission, I got up the nerve to ask a friend for help.

He came over, spouting the virtues of Coca Cola and hot water. I didn’t keep Coke in my house, but I filled my five-gallon bucket with practically boiling water from the bathtub faucet and we poured it down my Kohler.

Ah success!

I couldn’t believe how easy the solution turned out to be. I was so happy that nighttime visits to the toilet were back to only eight feet beyond the foot of my bed. I was so grateful that my temporary remedy was available to me for the full week.

Having a backup for your backup is no small thing.