Among some of the family heirlooms, like paintings by BC's greatgrandfather, was a large metal tub, about 2 feet across, and 2 feet high. "What is this?" I asked naively.
"That," she laughed, "is my mother's laundry tub."
In this one bucket, her mother, a true descendant of pioneers, washed laundry, linens, diapers, and more, for her entire family. At least once a day.
I'd forgotten all about it until this week, when an unseasonable, and unseasonably long, cold-snap froze and then burst the pipes leading to our washing machine, in the uninsulated garage. The toddler walked in to the bathroom one evening to find me stomping up and down on his clothes in a bathtub full of soapy (and increasingly dirty) water.
"Why are you standing on my shirt, mama?" he asked, his little brow wrinkling.
Soon, we'll have our fabulous modern convenience back, and I can forget about the huge quantities of dirt that kept coming out of clothes, no matter how many times I rinsed them. We will probably never have to live this "primitively" again (with our nice warm water and laundry soap and indoor bathtub and working dryer).
But I wonder where that laundry tub ended up.