We Fix Sump Pumps and Lift Stations. We Don't Sell Waterproofing Theater.

Oklahoma didn't hand out many basements. The same red clay that shoves our sewer lines around made digging them expensive, so most of the metro sits on slab — which means if you have a basement, a storm shelter, or a below-grade bathroom, you own one of the few holes in the ground that rain can find.

And nobody tests a sump pump. We're not scolding you — nobody does. It ran when the house was inspected, and the pit has been invisible since. Then the first gully-washer of April rolls in, the pit fills, and you learn the float has been pinned against the basin wall since last summer.

What most people never get told: the motor is usually the last thing to die. The float switch and the check valve — the two cheapest parts in the system — quit first, and either one can take the whole setup out of service. That's good news. Most "dead" sump pumps we open in Edmond aren't dead at all.

No presentation. We pull the lid and lift the pump.

The float gets swung through its full travel by hand — a tethered float needs room to swim, and a tight pit or a pump that's walked sideways will pin it. The switch gets tested with a multimeter, because a waterlogged float can look fine and never close the circuit. Then the check valve: when its flapper dies, everything the pump lifts falls straight back down, and the motor spends the night re-pumping the same 50 gallons. If the pump hums but moves nothing, we check for airlock — there should be a 3/16-inch weep hole drilled in the discharge between the pump and the check valve, and we find plenty that clogged or were never drilled.

Then the parts nobody looks at: the impeller, which silt and pit gravel love to jam; the 1-1/2-inch schedule 40 PVC discharge line, which by code can never be smaller than the pump's outlet; and where that line ends, because groundwater should daylight away from your foundation, not loop back toward it.

If the motor really is cooked, we'll say so — motors don't get resurrected. Then we'll tell you what we'd put in our own pit: a pump with a cast iron housing, sized to the actual lift, on its own circuit — not the lightest plastic unit on the shelf.

Your primary pump has one failure mode no plumber can repair: the storm that fills your pit is the same storm that drops your power line. A pump with no electricity is a paperweight with a float.

A battery backup is a second, smaller pump riding a deep-cycle battery. The honest part the boxes don't print large: it buys you hours, not days. Runtime depends on how often the pump cycles — a slow seep might let it idle through the night; a sideways Oklahoma thunderstorm refilling the pit every minute chews through the battery fast. The battery also ages out unused, so it needs a written install date and the same yearly test as the main pump.

Water-powered backups exist too — no battery to die, but they move less water and burn a lot of city water doing it.

If there's finished space or a bedroom below grade, a backup is cheap insurance against the worst night of the year. We'll size one to your pit and tell you exactly what it can and can't hold back.

Here's what diagnosis-first looks like on a real job. In July 2025 we worked a commercial lift station where the Liberty pump was building so much pressure it was blowing the discharge pipe apart every time it kicked on. The replacement-first answer is a new pump. Wrong — the pump was healthy. The discharge line was too small for the flow, choking the output and turning the pipe into the fuse. We upsized the discharge line and the "pump problem" was gone.

That's the work: lift stations, ejector pits, residential sumps — alongside the rest of our pipe repair jobs.