I love my shower. I love standing under that hot running water and regulating the temperature. I love the way the water drains away. I never take it for granted.
My first memories of washing were in a bowl. A bowl of water on the kitchen table. A routine of dipping the flannel in the bowl and washing my face. Rinsing the flannel and then working down.
We lived in a village with no running water. There was a water pump in the centre of the village and Mum had a yoke with two buckets with which to fetch the water. The pump had a long, cold metal handle that Mum would raise up and press down till the water flowed and filled the buckets. Then she would walk home with them with me skipping around her feet tripping her up. I got in the way of the pump handle one day and got a spit lip, which has left me with a lovely reminder of those times.
When my sister came along we moved to another village and a better home. The pump was closer to home and as the mains had come to the village my dad connected the house to running water. The copper pipes came along the wall to the stone sink beneath the kitchen window. The water was hard though so we had a water barrel outside to catch the rain and used this water to wash our hair. In a bowl set on the kitchen table and a drop of vinegar in the rinse water. Saturday was hair wash day and it took forever to dry in winter. One of our neighbours was very well-to-do and got a hairdryer, which she used to let us borrow in return for produce out of Mum’s garden.
The house had an out building attached to it with a copper. On Monday a fire would be lit beneath the copper and the washing was done here with a brush and scrubbing board and a blue bag. It was hung out across the garden propped up with a pole we used to like twirling around. In winter it froze stiff and Mum would bring the washing in to hang above us in the kitchen. It was frightening. Those shapes frozen into boards were frightening. I always wanted to bend those hanging legs and listen to the crackle. The shapes would deflate and strung onto the rods that were hoisted above us and then the drips would start.
The tin bath hung on the wall outside and on bath night was brought in and placed in front of the fire. Buckets of hot water were poured in and we children were scrubbed clean and wrapped in towels that were heated on top of the stove before being sent off to bed. Mum and Dad would then have their turn at bathing.
With running water on tap and new sewerage pipes in the street dad decided to turn the outer building with the copper into a bathroom. You had to come out of the kitchen and cross a bit of the yard to get to it but the luxury was novel. No longer were the night soil men coming down the garden path collecting our waste. We pressed a button and the whole village community came to inspect it and a party atmosphere eventuated.
The copper was made redundant and the first washing machine arrived. It fit next to the sink in the kitchen and had a roller with lovely soft rubber to squeeze the water out of the clothes. The old one had wooden rollers and needed two people to operate it. Our lives were changed forever by the advent of fresh running water on tap to the home. I never switch a tap on without giving it thanks and I am off to my favourite activity now.
Showering. Under warm regulated water.