The Fate of the Big Pink Tub

Over the weekend we joined a multi-family camp-out at a friend's place in the Dosewallips Valley on the Olympic Peninsula. The event, called "Uff-Dah! 3," marked the third anniversary of the weekend the group had originally gathered to raise the walls of the cabin there -- a very cool, though still very unfinished, cabin. (We were told the Norwegian phrase "Uff Dah!" translates roughly as "Oh my goodness!" and carries the same wide range of meaning, from excited surprise to shocked dismay.)

We were newcomers to the group, which is slightly older, extremely musical, and mostly childless (or with children grown & gone). The invitation promised campfire singing, a swimming hole under a waterfall, and the chance for Andrew to see one of his fantasies (the whole Build Your Own Cabin in the Woods thing) in action. And despite being chased home Sunday morning by rain, we had a glorious time. The singing was fine, the waterfall enchanting, the swimming invigorating (Uff Dah indeed!), and the fantasy encouraging. Simon could not get enough of splitting wood.



Uff Dah! 3 also brought our family an unexpected moment of something resembling closure in a complicated plumbing matter. We had noted the intriguing presence on the e-mail guest list of a man we'll call Bob G, a gentleman who has long occupied a special place in our imaginations. You see, Mr. G once owned our house -- long, long ago, before the people who sold it to us. Over the years we have put together a mental picture of Mr. G and his then-wife Katie, based on a handful of vague clues: the stray piece of mail from the Society for Creative Anachronism, the disappointed trick-or-treaters who came all the way from Burien in search of the the G family's legendary over-the-top haunted house (and instead found us, baffled and apologetic, handing out boring bite-size Snickers bars at the door), and the bizarre upstairs remodel that included the installation of a toilet, sink, and giant pink jacuzzi tub in their master bedroom. Who were these people?

So you can imagine our excitement Saturday night when a big shiny Audi came swooping up the steep dirt road into the circle of tents and discharged a handsome, energetic man with bright blue eyes and a shaved head, a beautiful Russian blonde on his arm. "Hello!" we said, when we were introduced at last,"We live in your house!" One of the first things he wanted to know (once this bold greeting was explained to him) was how we liked the big pink tub.

Hmmm... What to say? Our feelings about the big pink tub aren't easily condensed.

At first it was absolutely a selling point, despite its unconventional location. We'll never forget our very first night in the house: after days of packing and cleaning and hauling furniture in the cold rain, we finally poured a couple of glasses of wine, filled the pink tub with hot water, and climbed in. There we were in our brand new house, sitting in our groovy pink jacuzzi tub, looking at each other in excited disbelief... and then we decided it was time to turn on the jets.

Unfortunately, nobody had used the jacuzzi feature of the tub for quite a while, and the jets had built up an inner coating of cold black slime, which now came spurting forth in astonishing quantities. So instead of soaking in a hot tub with bubbling water massaging our tired shoulders, we found ourselves sitting in a lukewarm soup of pungent black mold. And laughing hysterically.

The next day we cleaned out the jets, and we enjoyed many relaxing soaks over the years that followed. Mikala survived Josie's labor by spending as much time as possible in the tub (Simon came so fast there wasn't time to fill it, alas). The kids loved the giant pink tub -- and when they were young it was actually pretty nice having it in the bedroom, where you could lie in bed and read while making sure they weren't drowning each other (or their duckies).


But eventually the kids outgrew the need for lifeguards, and having them splashing around in the tub while you were attempting to read in peace began to lose its charm. All those splashes began to have a deleterious effect on the walls, the windowsills, and particularly the wood floor, which developed alarming soft patches. Every time someone took a bath the whole place smelled like a muggy locker room. The tub was big. And pink. And (did we mention this?) in the bedroom. By the time we were planning our own upstairs remodel a couple of years ago, getting rid of it was at the top of the priority list. The big pink tub is now but a memory -- albeit a powerful one.

We related most of this information (minus the lukewarm soup) to Mr. G, not sure how he would take it. He was delighted to hear about Josie's birth -- his wife had labored in the big pink tub too. He seemed a little dismayed that we had removed it, but somewhat mollified to learn that it had been adopted by a guy over on Spencer Street. It is now installed on his deck, and we have a standing invitation to wander over there anytime for a nice hot bath under the cedar trees.