I can’t imagine life without indoor running water. When I try to picture myself dependent on an outhouse, a chamber pot, or levering a hand pump on a cold winter morning, I shake my head in wonder. How did anyone back in the day stand it? It must have been awful, yet here I am, boiling water on a Saturday night to get myself clean for church tomorrow.
The teakettle is overfull, and before the whistle can blow, beads of water sizzle across the flat black glass of my stove. The bottom of my kettle pops and hops, impatient to be lifted. I steady it with a potholder then carry it cautiously across the living room into my master bath. Dan put a five-gallon navy blue construction bucket into the shower for my ablutions, and I tip the teapot, emptying its contents into this makeshift bathing contraption. I’m not sure how much cold water to add. I hold the frigid shower hose close to the steamy surface, reluctant to test the temperature too soon. I certainly don’t want to put in too much and have to start boiling more water. I skim my fingers across the surface, then plunge my hand in to mix. It’s nice and hot, with the bucket about half full, and heat to spare while I get psyched up and gather what I need to before attempting my cleansing. How many times will I repeat this procedure before our new boiler is installed?
We’ve been calling the HVAC repair company for over a month now, trying to get them to bring the part to stop a leak, which since its discovery has steadily, increasingly, dripped. Last night, I smelled fuel oil wafting up from the basement. Dan took the boiler apart and declared it dead. We are an emergency situation now. The temperature is hovering around freezing and predicted not to rise far out of the teens next week. Saturday morning, while Dan brought firewood onto the porch and searched for standing deadwood to add to his store, I explained the situation to the repair manager. He sent someone over, who confirmed what Dan knew. Our boiler was done. No more heat or hot water until the new one is installed.
I take a mental inventory of my strategy and rehearse how I’m going to get clean. I’ll wash my face real quick, squeeze the wet washcloth over myself as a primer, then soap it up to give my surfaces a once-over, and finally tip the bucket over myself to rinse.
When I get into bed, I don’t feel dirty at all. I’m not sure this would work in the summer, but for the coldest week of the year—when I won’t be sweating—it does. Sunday morning, I use my Breville coffee maker to fill a mixing bowl with hot water and do my normal grooming.
I allow myself reflection in the morning during services. . . although not actual religious reflection. I think back to my parents telling how each Saturday night, my grandmothers heated enough water on the stove to fill a bathtub in the kitchen. Everyone in the house got washed from head to toe before “Sunday-Go-To-Meetin’,” getting squeaky clean for God. My Dad did this weekly ritual until he was about fourteen. At that time, his Great Aunt Belle moved in with his mother, installing a commode and tub to pay for her intrusion—the toilet compensation for rent. My mother, on the other hand, got access to hot running water when she moved from Vernon to Birmingham after high school, where she attended business college and lived in the YWCA. My Aunt Charlotte tells me my Grandmother Sanford had her first bathroom installed after my grandfather died, when she went to work at the hospital. I realize with astonishment that I’m the first generation of my family who’s lived her entire existence with luxuries I consider necessities.
We repeat our bucket ablutions Sunday night. I hope when I call the repairmen Monday morning, they’ll tell me the new boiler is ready for installation and I can wash my hair like a normal 21st century woman—under a hot, steamy shower.
Monday morning: I learn my new boiler is on a truck somewhere between Maryland and Tabernacle.
Tuesday morning: workers come to disassemble the old one.
Wednesday: they work all day to get the business done.
All the while my alarm pings every thirty minutes to remind me: feed the wood-stove.
I stay toasty warm. My pipes never freeze. I repeat my cleansing routine three more times. Friends and neighbors invite me to shower at their houses, but oddly, I find it more convenient to do my bucket method rather than pack all I need and brave the 7-degree air. My way, I get to slip between my sheets clean and warm.
At the end of the experience Dan and I discuss our ordeal. “You would think you’d have to suffer without hot water or heat, but we just did what we had to do.” Coming from a long line of pioneering people, we found our way to keep clean.
Your Turn: What modern convenience have you lost for a time? How did you compensate?
What I thought of as a read your story was the summer of 1974. (Wow, what a very long time ago that was!) My family rented a house in Jekyll Island, Georgia, for a week in August. I remember 3 things about that vacation:
(1) Sharks and stingrays were reported close to shore every day.
(2) We saw Nixon's resignation on TV (and I cried -- somehow my 10-year-old self knew it was a sad day.)
(3) I volunteered to wash dishes. I was so excited to do it. I'd never washed them by hand before. Years later, I'd look back and realize that I'd never lived in a home without a dishwasher (and apparently only vacationed without one once).…