One of the first things my wife and I did when we moved into our farmhouse more than four decades ago was dig a well.

Our house, which was built by my grandparents in the early 1960s, drew its water from a cistern. This was good and bad. It was good because the cistern was supplied by naturally soft rainwater from the house’s roof; it was bad because no rain meant no rainwater. And birds, who aren’t known for their fastidious bathroom habits, often roosted on the roof.

We didn’t personally dig our well, of course. That would have involved approximately as much manual labor as it took to construct the Great Pyramid. We hired Torgrude Well Drilling to tackle this task.

When the drilling rig arrived on our farmstead, Kelly Torgrude, patriarch of Torgrude Well Drilling, asked where we wanted to put our well. I asked him if we should first witch for water or at least conduct a comprehensive geological survey.

“Witching is for the birds,” he replied dismissively. “In this area, you can pretty much find water anywhere that you sink a hole.”

So, we started drilling at a spot located in convenient proximity to the house. At 90 feet we struck a water-bearing bed of gravel that, Kelly decreed, would supply more water than we would ever need. This proved to be true even when we had two teenagers at home who frequently took showers that used more water than a bustling car wash.

We should have been happy, but there was a fly in the ointment. It turned out that our well water was hard as a hammer. Each gallon contained more iron than a railroad spike.

It was clear that our cloudy water needed to be treated with a softener. So, we hired a local company to install a water softener.

Life was good. Our clothes were cleaner and more sparkly, and it no longer felt as though your skin was being pricked by a thousand needles after taking a shower. We could tell when I had neglected to refill the brine tank with salt because our hardwater maladies would soon rear their ugly heads.

Several decades passed, and we began to notice that our water quality was deteriorating. This became most obvious whenever my wife used bleach in the clothes washer. Anything light colored would come out of the wash with a dingy orange hue.

I was fine with this, but I generally don’t care how my clothes look as long as I’m comfortable. My wife is more persnickety. She didn’t buy my theory that dingy orange might soon become the next fad.

In truth, I also missed having soft water and the luxurious sensation of shower gel creating tsunamis of lather instead of just oozing across your skin like so much scent-infused snail slime.

I called the original water softener company and asked how much a new system would cost. The number they recited caused me to chortle and reply, “No, really. All kidding aside, how much would it be?”

I was assured that that was indeed the cost. There’s sticker shock and then there’s the “struck by lightning” level of sticker shock.

Being thrifty and somewhat of a do-it-yourselfer, I researched the topic of water softeners. They basically consist of three parts: a container for brine, a pressurized tank that houses a resin bed, and a timer/valve doohickey that controls things. After testing our well water and confirming that it’s harder than Chinese algebra, I purchased an appropriately sized softener at a local home improvement store.

Installation, according to the softener’s instructions, should have been a snap. Connect the water supply line to port A, the output line to port B, plug in the brine tube and you’re off to the races.

But there was something defective about the connection between the brine tube and the controller thingamabob. This caused the brine line to drip, which wasn’t a big deal except for the fact that it shouldn’t leak at all. Everything was brand new, dadgummit!

Not one to give up easily, I removed the offending fitting and went to our local farm supply store. I stood for a long time in the brass fittings section, puzzling over how to plumb this puzzling leak. The solution, I hoped, would involve a carefully selected brass elbow and its accompanying brass ferrule.

After everything had been assembled and tightened — snug, but not too snug — I held my breath and repressurized the softener. Nary a drop dripped. Success!

Life is good once again. Our clothes are squeaky clean, and our showers feel luxurious.

You might even say that we have it soft.

— Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy” can be found at www.workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.