Below find a reprise of an earlier poem….inspired by the charming events of this past week that included….Beautiful spring weather, a 15” fall of heavy, wet snow, followed by - at our house - a four-day power outage, return to spring weather….then, day after tomorrow, possibly record-breaking heat.
Just another week in the Northeast….and my Nova Scotia childhood.
When I was just a tiny tot, a wide-eyed, well-loved daughter,
I learned that I could take a bath in just a cup of water.
Well, maybe more than just a cup… It might have been a dish;
But Mama told me I’d be clean in one strategic swish.
Or, two or three. But, it was clear low rations wouldn’t hurt.
We’d stand all naked in the cold and p’raps we shivered off the dirt.
Thus was our mode of hygiene at Mount Thom or Country Harbour:
The pitcher and the bowl contained our total cleansing larder.
There, it was very obvious that water wasn’t free.
It took some strength to haul it from the well house past the maple
tree.
It took more strength to pour it into the reservoir,
Where it heated rather slowly from the early morning fire.
And, often there were many in the house – up to the dozens –
Sleep-laden aunts and uncles and a tribe of dusty cousins.
It took a lot of water to lather us all up,
Even though we washed ourselves cup by cup by cup.
Sometimes the heated water had long since been depleted
By the time one’s own ablutions in the cold could be completed.
In a really close inspection, p’raps some stain might still be seen,
But the tops of all our goose bumps were meticulously clean.
The big treat in the summer was the Cleansing of the Clan….
In the brook below the barn this murky marathon began.
The men and bigger boys went first, ostensibly to drive
The waters clear of anything wiggly or alive.
A cake of soap would lather up their bodies and their hair;
They’d practice full immersion ‘til no signs of soil were there.
Once they’d returned all squeaky clean and thoroughly “deloused,”
The Mummies, girls and little fellows exited the house.
Down we would trek, excited, with our towels, soap and clean duds,
To find the brook still garnished with some festive streaks of suds.
Shivering and naked and all tentative we’d go
Into the brisk, cool water, wondering what might lurk below.
“O, Daddy scared them all away,” the message children heard,
But the tickling schools of minnows didn’t always get the word.
We dipped ourselves and scrubbed ourselves with nearly no
Compunction,
While getting clean by making it a full-clan, tribal function.
For extra entertainment, we had certain ones to thank
Who, unseen, in the underbrush, stole clothing from the bank.
Often, several victims… would send up fearful yowls,
Wrapped in indignation and, with luck, remaining towels.
Well, I digress, though truly this is background for my point,
For why my sense of hygiene, all my life’s been out of joint.
The concept of the Spartan bath survived my early youth…
A convenient, quick alternative is what it is, in truth.
My parents often used it to avoid the fuss and flurry
Of a full bath’s complication when they were in a hurry.
Thus my father would announce the act in deep, stentorian tones
“I guess I’ll go and just swab off ‘the thirteen danger zones.’ ”
And so began a puzzle that has stymied me for years,
To account for thirteen danger zones, from toes to eyes and ears.
No matter how I add, as o’er my carcass I cavort;
I count, recount, yet always seem to come up one zone short.
Of course, I asked my Daddy for the full list, lest I shirk,
But all I got for answer was a knowing little smirk.
So, here I am, well seasoned, and all I know for sure
Is I’m at least one thirteenth hygienically impure.
My hope, while I still occupy my earthly flesh and bones
Is that I yet may figure out “The Thirteenth Danger Zone.”