Though it was uncomfortably cold outside last night when we were doing some work on the shelving unit in the basement, we were having a tropical heat wave of our own in our garage and it felt glorious! While Ted measured, leveled, sawed, drilled, and clamped, I helped by parking myself squarely in front of the torpedo heater (like a weenie) and roasting myself toasty warm (like a different kind of weenie). This keeps my whining and complaining at bay, which is certainly more helpful than my teeth chattering in Ted’s ear while he’s agonizing over reaching a ridiculously accurate digital level of 0.0. After a year building some pretty killer sets during my internship at BoarsHead, I’ve proven that I’m fully capable of doing much more than merely handing the man tools and assisting in lifting shelves onto the metal arms, but let’s be honest, if I can still be supportive, reasonably helpful and not remove my rear end from the toasty goodness of a kerosene powered mega-heater in the dead of winter, I’ve got it good.
The warmth from the heater warmed me in more ways than one because oddly, it was somehow the same temperature and feel of soaking in the hot tub that we used to have on the deck back home on cold Texas nights. To all of you non-Texans snickering out there, you can cut it out because, yes, it does in fact get cold at night in Texas. We had the spa at our old house in San Antonio back when I was a baby and when we moved to Boerne, it came with us. It was calmly situated directly beneath a canopy of trees with a clear view of the black, star-filled Texas hill country sky to the right. The moon would shine through the trees above casting shadows on the deck and billions of bright stars would glisten intensely if you just changed your positioning a little to face the house. The only sounds on hot tub nights were the spa jets swirling, crickets chirping, owls hooting, and the occasional bird’s lullaby – no horns or car engines – but maybe a little lilt of county music would drift by if the neighbor’s radio was on in the barn. Your body, up to your neck, was cocooned in bubbling, hot, relaxing water while your head was left out in the cold, and that somehow created a perfectly comfortable contrast. I’d stay in until my finger pads were wrinkled and ripe as a prune – possibly because the absolute worst thing was the biting temperature shock into the brisk, chilly night air when you got out before you had a chance to snuggle into the towel and dive into the house.
- This isn’t what our hot tub looked like, but if I ever get one again, I’d like a stone or wood encased one
I loved that hot tub. When my sister would come home to visit we’d always spend at least one evening soaking in the spa with mom and dad and a travel mug of ice water nearby in case it got too steamy. If I had friends over during high school, we’d pile into the spa – six at once until the boiling 108 degree water (yeah it was a touch hot that day) was overflowing. One time Few, one of our inquisitive outdoor orange-tabby cats, leaped up onto the spa like he usually did to settle down for an evening cat nap, only this time we were in it. He was unpleasantly surprised to land in water instead of on a warm cover – poor guy. We fished him out and wrapped him in a towel, but he was pissed nonetheless. Then one day I went outside and it was gone. I’m sure there’s more to it than that, but as a teen I remember feeling utterly offended that my beloved hot tub had simply vanished without my input. For all I know someone did mention it to me, or maybe it was so old that it was too expensive to maintain anymore, or maybe it was on its last legs. I don’t actually know to this day what happened to it or where it went, but on cold nights I still kind of really miss it. When we eventually purchase a house, a hot tub definitely tops my list of must-haves…right up there with a vegetable garden, wrap around porch, and bowling alley in the basement.
Our weatherlady tells us tomorrow will be “bitterly cold.” I believe “bitterly cold” and “snow” are two of my least favorite weather descriptions ever. I much prefer “blistering hot” and “rainy” to the alternative. But I was given no say in this, or the mountains of snow falling right now and blanketing Cincinnati, so instead I’ll protest and stay inside. I have plenty to do to keep me occupied today.
P.S. The swinging metal arm piece of the shelving units we put in last night can resemble many things, I have a learned. Among the most interesting of the options are an alligator snapping his jaws shut and a see saw (or a teeter totter, if you prefer).
This got me thinking – when was the last time you played on a see saw? Seriously. Think about it. How old were you? See saws used to be staples on any respectable playground when I was a kid, but I don’t see them all that often anymore. I’ve slid down slides, swung on swings, and dashed through a woodscape playground game of tag quite recently (teaching theatre camps over the summer), but the last time I was on a teeter totter was probably when I was 11. You’re never too old for a see saw. With this in mind, I am making it my mission to find and play on a see saw this year simply because it is a fun thing to do. I challenge you all to do the same. Those of you with young children or grandchildren have a distinct advantage because you will look far less foolish and people won’t wonder who the childless 25-year-old creeper hogging the see saw is.
