“Mom…” he said, “I broke the bathtub…”

Poor kid–kneeling on the side to scrub away soap scum had rather shockingly revealed the dry rot that had been silently eating away at the homebuilt tub, tiled in sheets of mini-squares by parents with more enthusiasm than expertise.

Now the whole thing had to be ripped out–our beloved family tub, wide enough for all 4 of us.

Our grief was short-lived, though, on the announcement that the replacement would be a Jacuzzi®!

What the new tub lacked in homemade style, it made up for in functionality. Who needed a hot tub? We had the “jacuz.”

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Go there.

Dive deep.

It’s where all the true answers live,

the ones that matter.

Reside there.

Rest for awhile.

If you feel uncomfortable,

odds are it’s only that you’re not used to it.

Just give yourself time

to acclimate.

Open you palms,

your pockets,

your mind,

your heart.

You may think there’s nothing here,

but hush,

just wait.

Listen.

What was empty will be filled.

Can you feel it?

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In first grade, Carla and I created a play. The City Mouse and the Country Mouse, with grocery bags as our brown fur costumes, yellow construction paper stapled together around crumpled paper stuffing as our block of cheese. One of us must have told the teacher, or perhaps she overheard us playing — rehearsing — because she had us perform our production in front of the blackboard, while the reset of the class watched from their desks.

Did I like it? I think I was both proud and embarrassed by turns, taking a bow in my paper bags.

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Sometimes I think the best part of owning my home is having a washer & dryer inside. Still, I haven’t quite kicked the habit of waiting until I’m completely out of clean socks & underwear before running a load, a habit instilled when doing laundry meant hauling an overstuffed bag down the street and giving up a big pile of quarters that could be spent on other things. Heck, it meant finding quarters, or a place to make them, too! All of which is light years better than what my great-grandmothers had to do.

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Of the four girls on the block where I grew up, the pecking order went like this:

Laura (who once told me I’d be pretty if it weren’t for the chicken pox scar on the bridge of my nose),

Mandy (who, like me, had a Jewish mom & gentile dad),

me,

& Emily (who was suddenly forbidden from playing with me, a day or two after asking me where babies come from, and me sharing the facts as I knew them).

When Emily wasn’t there, all the cruelty that girls save for each other was aimed at me.

When she was, I was spared.

Process Notes

One of the beautiful things about this 3×5 practice is that sometimes it shines a light on story slices that might just be worth expanding upon later.

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