These days, when I want a bath, I turn a handle and hot water comes pouring out.

I don’t plan for it. I don’t haul it. And I certainly don’t have to heat it on the stove.

But it wasn’t always that way.

Back when we lived in Arkansas, before we moved to Borger, I didn’t get a bath every day. Hardly anybody did.

And when I did get one, it wasn’t in a bathroom.

We didn’t have one.

There was no indoor plumbing at all. Until they finally got running water to the kitchen sink, every drop had to be brought in from the well.

My bathtub was a little round galvanized tub, usually sitting right there in the kitchen.

Now, don’t picture anything fancy. It wasn’t very big, and most of the time you had to stand up in it. The water never got anywhere near the top half of you. Somebody had to take care of that part with a washcloth.

Getting the water ready was a job all by itself.

Granny or Mother would heat a big kettle on the little two-burner propane stove. Then they’d pour the hot water into the tub and add cold water from the well until it was just right.

Then came the rules.

The children went first.

I don’t remember the order after that, but I do know who was first in that tub.

Me. Every time.

And whoever was washing me never failed to give me the same warning…

“Don’t pee in the bath water!”

At the time, I probably didn’t give that much thought. Looking back, I can certainly understand why it mattered.

Somebody else was getting in that water after me!

If there were a lot of people at the house, Granny would move the tub into the little room off the kitchen that they used as a bedroom.

And that room was COLD.

The only heat in the whole house came from the pot-bellied stove in the living room. It didn’t do much for that little bedroom.

So bath time wasn’t something you lingered over.

No soaking. No relaxing. No bubbles.

You got washed as fast as possible, got wrapped in a towel, and hurried back to the living room… straight to that pot-bellied stove.

Nobody ever had to tell me to hurry.

It’s funny what stays with you. A little metal tub. Water heating on the stove. Granny with a towel ready. And a warning I can still hear all these years later.

It’s funny, too, how easily we get used to having things.

Hot water whenever we want it. A bathtub big enough to sit down in. Heat in every room.

I’ll be honest with you… I like my hot water. I have no desire to go back to standing in a galvanized tub in a cold bedroom!

But I wouldn’t trade the memory.

Somebody had to bring in that water. Somebody had to heat it, check it, and wash a little girl who probably had no idea how much work had gone into getting her clean.

I was just the little one who got to go first.

Looking back now, I see the love in all of it.

Even the warning about the bath water.

A Little Coffee Conversation…

What was bath time like when you were little? Did you ever take a bath in a galvanized tub—and did you get to go first? Tell me about it in the comments!

As long as God gives me another sunrise, He isn’t finished writing my story. And that means He’s not finished with yours either So… please don’t stop.

Next – Definitely NOT Charmin!