The bathtub was for Zinnia, and she could put anything in it she wished. Her wishes came through me, and I succumbed to her every whim. How could I not? She had died in my own belly after all, and I felt completely that it was the very least I could do.
I moved into my birthmother's house after the miscarriage, intending to get my head together and concentrate on my studies and writing. But in the few days while I waited for the huge transport rig to arrive, carrying all of my worldly belongings to my new home, there was little else to do but putter about in the garden. And that's when I found The Tub, tarnished and buried under a patch of stinging burdocks.
That hefty claw footed beast was still installed in this house when my birthmother Christine had bought this place. The previous owners had painted the porcelain exterior royal blue. Not that you could see much blue anymore, it appeared to me to be made of solid ginger-orange rust. At 10 years old, my half-sister Jayne had taken one surly look at it and announced firmly, "I hope you know that if you expect ME to be taking any baths in THIS house, you will be replacing THAT ugly bathtub tomorrow!"
And thus it became unplumbed, towed outside behind the barn with the help of some local men, turned taps earthward and forgotten these last 11 years. Left to rot and rust until I came along, mourning the death of my unborn daughter. I squealed like a lucky child when I saw it, though the stubs of it's claw feet barely remained. Or rather, Zinnia squealed through me.
We tried to flip it, but we couldn't even lift it, the earth and burdocks had long since grown up over the edges. Finally, after we dug up what we could to loose it, we tied it to the back of the van, the Golddigger, and hauled it free! What a tremendous summer day that was, I'll never forget lassoing a bathtub and towing it clear around the acreage to the backyard, where I quickly set up a sort of shop.
I babied it. I bathed it and scrubbed it. I used sponges, buckets of hot soapy water, the garden hose, steel wool, and finally an old wire brush to smooth down the texture of the rust. I worked on it after dinners in my bikini, catching the last of the blazing evening sun which turned my skin to a toasted honey tan. When it was all prepped I painted it too, in a sharp black enamel, and in contrast to the still creamy white porcelain, the effect was as formal as a ship Captain's tuxedo.
When the paint was finally dry, we flipped it right side up and found a position for it at the end of the new kiwi arbour that Christine had just planted. It looks like a chorus line of alternating purple liatris and pink begonias with a space in the centre where the kiwis will eventually grow up over an arched walkway. And right at the very end of that line lays the bathtub. It is truly a position of honour, and best of all, visible from both my studio desk and my bedroom window.
At last, it was ready to be filled. I was, as they say, 'on a mission.'
First, I laid down a deep layer of big stones for good drainage. The tub was a lot bigger inside than it appeared, and would need plenty of substance to fill it. I discovered behind the barn an old stash of big stones that had been piled up when the land was cleared. A thrify gardener needs rocks sometimes, and knows it's best to keep them around, and organized. I transported them to my tub in wheelbarrow loads, unable to remember the last time I might have pushed one. I noticed my arms and back grow stronger with each heavy load.
Over the rocks I added another layer of twigs and sticks, especially wet woody things that would slowly compost over time. I imagined giving my baby plants interesting bits and pieces to twist their roots around. Of course, each step of the process had to consider whatever was absolutely best for the babies.
Next came a thick layer of rich kitchen compost from under the big tree. This compost was black and smelled fresh and clean, the sign of a high quality fertilizer. I even found a patch of wild strawberries growing where I dug it up. Clearly this was prize stuff. A few more trips with the wheelbarrow.
I dug up several loads of new dirt from a heap that Christine had bought 2 years ago. With some garden plan in mind, she paid $200 to have clean, arable soil dumped here, but then never got around to using it. It had just become a dark lump in the yard, sprouting a bumper crop of weeds. I figured it was high time to put it to good use.
I mixed into that with a shovel, a few handfuls of pure manure; there were loads of it left on this land from when this homestead had been operated as a slaughterhouse by several of the families who had lived here before. Each family had eventually gone bankrupt and had to leave, and most of them in under 5 years. It seemed to be a pattern with this old house. Then Christine found it, fell in love with the place, and made it a promise. She promised the house that there would never be any more killing here. I believe it must have heard her, because here she is 11 years later and getting more settled every year.
So, we had manure and clean soil, I pulled out the worst of those weeds, and raked it all out until the surface was flat and smooth. And then - then, it was finally ready for planting. Finally! I was more deeply involved than ever.
We girls shopped around together, finding perfect little treasures everywhere we went. What fun we had collecting the little devotions, every one offered up for Zinnia's giggles and squawks of approval, which were audible to no one but me.
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