The Clawfoot Tub

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You know how when you’ve been through a bad time, you get the idea that you “deserve” something you’ve been wanting anyway? A reward, a gold star, a treat for being such a big girl? Well, that’s how I felt about the clawfoot tub.

I’d always wanted one to replace the dinky little builder-grade tub in my bathroom, but it was too expensive, too much trouble and too…unnecessary. I mean, I already had a perfectly usable tub, right?

But after that winter! Everything went wrong that winter. My car stranded me beside the interstate highway in a snowstorm; I got bronchitis that lasted for weeks; my old dog had to be put down; the furnace needed frequent house calls. It was one terrible thing after another, but I soldiered on, much of the time barking like a sea lion. When it was finally over, when the first snowdrops pushed up through the frozen earth, I decided I had earned a treat. And that treat would be the clawfoot tub I’d always wanted.

I look back and think, “Why didn’t I get a new outfit, or go on a cruise, or…or anything but a clawfoot tub?” Well, who knew? That’s why we have hindsight.

I decided I wanted a genuine antique, not a replica. That meant haunting antiques stores and estate sales. When I finally found a rusty, blotchy tub in the basement of an old house, it wasn’t even for sale. I kept mentioning figures until the owner drooled and agreed to let it go.

Now there’s a euphemism. A clawfoot tub isn’t “let go.” It weighs approximately a million pounds and it takes a small nation to move it. Plus, this tub needed resurfacing, so I had to decide whether to have it hauled to a workshop or have it done after it was installed in my house. Given the difficulty of moving Clawdette, as I thought of her, I decided to put up with the mess and toxic fumes and have it done after.

So on to logistics. The tub was in the basement. That meant it had to somehow be muscled up the stairs, then into a truck strong enough to take its weight, on to my house and then – wait for it – up another set of stairs. I would need strong men. Lots of strong men. A survey of my friends wasn’t promising. So many bad backs, knee braces and iffy rotator cuffs! I hired a moving company.

Four huge men with rippling biceps surveyed Clawdette in her spidery resting place. They walked around her with worried faces, hands on hips, looking from her to the stairs, shaking their heads. Finally they seized her and began an epic wrestling match. I won’t even describe the groaning and cursing that accompanied every inch of Clawdette’s progress. We’ll go straight to the moment she was plopped into my upstairs bathroom and all her tremendous weight settled on a floor never meant for such stress. One clawfoot immediately popped through the ceiling of the living room below. It looked like I’d been visited by a giant bird.

“Gotta reinforce that floor, lady,” one of the giants said unnecessarily, slinging sweat from his forehead.

“Can you…?”

“Nope. We don’t do that. Gotta get a contractor. Meanwhile, don’t stand too close to the tub or you might both go through the floor.”

Then he handed me a bill that drove all thoughts of contractors out of my head. I’d be lucky just to eat. Clawdette idled in lop-sided splendor for a couple months while my finances recovered.

I needed a contractor to shore up the floor and repair the ceiling, plus a plumber to reroute the pipes, and then a resurfacer to make Clawdette beautiful. I had nightmares in which money flew out of my wallet and rained down on others. It was now month three and I was still taking sponge baths in the sink.

At last, many thousands of dollars later, my clawfoot tub was in working order. I was given the green light to actually fill it with water and insert my trembling body into it. I leaned back and savored the luxury. It had been a long time coming, but it was all worth it. “I’ll love you forever,” I crooned to Clawdette, stroking her glossy porcelain.

The next morning, my boss called me into his office and informed me I was being promoted to my dream job, the one I’d been working toward all my adult life. I was filled with joy until he mentioned the job was in another state.

“You mean I’d have to move?”

“Of course. You’ve always said you were willing to relocate for the right opportunity. I put my reputation on the line to get you this job.”

That evening I filled Clawdette to the brim, slipped into her depths carefully so as not to splash my phone, and began calling realtors. The next day one came to survey my house from top to bottom.

“You have a lovely home,” she said. “The only thing is, clawfoot tubs aren’t everyone’s cup of tea. They’re kind of like swimming pools – very appealing to some, but a deal-breaker for others. For young families, it’s hard to bathe little kids in them – the high sides, you know. I’d suggest you replace yours with a conventional bathtub.”

“Replace…?”

“Oh dear, are you crying? Was it something I said?”

 

 

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