Apr. 10, 2007 - 20:44 MDT

IN THE BUFF

I was raised to my teen years in a two room house out by the alley. That gave us a long yard in front that we kids put to good use for ball games and such.

Bonnie wrote of bath night, tub in front of the fireplace, blanket curtains on the surrounding chairs. Took me back it did.

Our heat came from a coal range, one with an attached reservoir to warm water. I hated that thing, it was such a pain to fill it and the water never got really hot. That is where the bathwater started though, in that reservoir.

A big old galvanized wash tub was brought in from outside, the ice removed by a teakettle of boiling water, and turned up on the floor near the coal range. Kettle would be boiling and the dampers on the stove open wide to turn up the heat, but it would still be chilly to bathe in that kitchen.

The tub would be filled with Mom and her teakettle adjusting the temperature of the reservoir water to a comfortable level.

A soup bowl on the chair near the tub held a bar of soap, wash rag in the tub. Somehow I felt so ungainly trying to get clean in that thing. Last thing would be Mom giving me a shampoo, me kneeling in the tub so the rinse water wouldn't get scattered all over the kitchen.

Finally the rite of bathing would be done, I'd be reasonably clean and rub myself dry on a towel.

This would be done just before I went to bed and Mom would be insistent that my hair be dry, totally.

Dad would open a window in the bedroom, say goodnight and close the door, cause he and Mom would stay up later. So, there I'd be, squeaky clean, pajamas kicked to the bottom of the bed, snuggling down to a night's dreams of majestically wild adventure.

Nevertheless, I dreaded the whole bathing operation, probably like most other red-blooded American boys. Or maybe boys with nice bathtubs and showers didn't dread bath night. Never came up for discussion amongst us kids.

Bonnie mentioned marshmallow roasting, which also jingled a memory bell. Straightened out coat-hangers one end bent to "hand comfort" with one or two marshmallows stuck on the other end. Standing so close to the fire that my scabby knees would roast, I'd hold the marshmallows over the fire. Always trying for that picture perfect "do" on them like the pictures. Never quite making the grade, most of the time they'd be black or on fire, some of the time my greed would lead to premature consumption.

We were at my Brother-in-law's place in Utah last summer, he dug a firehole, we stood around roasting marshmallows, just like the old days.

Hee, I did about as good a job as I did in my youth but it was great fun anyhow. Starry sky up above, warm night surrounding us and comfortable chairs to sit in while we traded stories of our younger days.

I'll go for that anytime, "marshmallow roasting," but don't care to return to washtub bathing. I'd do a sponge bath with a basin of water and washrag before I'd go back to that. But pleasant memories arise from thinking about that time.

I didn't get bashful until we moved to the house in East Denver which had a tub and a shower as well as a wash basin. Living high on the hog like that seemed to make me bashful and I was a bit leery of being caught IN THE BUFF . . . . . . . . . .

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