Discouraged this head and throat assault has not abated, I suggested to the King a hot bubble bath would do wonders. With a conspiratorial nod, he whisked the Elderly Parent off, blessing me with a lengthy guilty pleasure. The one bathtub in this house on Ladyslipper Lane became hers when she arrived; and while I thank God every morning for the wonder of a hot shower, I miss that big-enough-to fully-recline bathtub.

Maybe I should be embarrassed to admit this, but I've read whole books while soaking in the bathtub! Looking back at old family pictures—several of me in bathinette and little tin washtubs, I must have fallen in love with baths at an early age.

Dad, his brothers and Grandpa installed the septic tank for our first real bathtub, which is the initial memory in which I am conscious of being completely frightened out of my wits. To my young mind, that hole was huge—probably all the way to China! They were lining it with big rocks and kept trying to back a truck closer to the edge to dump the rocks. I KNEW that truck was going into that hole—and who knows what disaster would result. Dad, as always, was upbeat, pushing it to the edge, confidently taking the risk. My dad has never been much afraid of anything, but plenty of people have been afraid of him. And that's a whole 'nother post.

That said, the image of that bathtub remains clear, except that instead of hot bubble baths, I remember thawing hoses in it so we could get water to the barn. And that, too, is another story.

We have happy memories of the godly, but the name of the wicked person rots away. Proverbs 10:7