Over the river and through the woods

The last couple of Fridays I've been a "camper." This should not be confused with a camper proper (an outdoorsie type in a sleeping bag, in a tent, in the woods); a "camper" is what my family calls someone at a sleepover. And while we're drawing these fine distinctions between common and my familial uses of words, a sleepover isn't necessarily a bunch of kids at a friend's house watching movies, telling ghost stories, eating junk food, and talking the night away. Our sleepovers are better: as a child I would go to my relatives' house; they would take me shopping; we'd go out to a movie of my choosing; grandma would make my favorite dinner; I'd wake on the morrow to a bespoken breakfast (usually buttery scrambled eggs with extra crispy bacon; sometimes freedom toast).

I wasn't so indulged during my recent sojourn at my grandma's house. Auntie Gayle, through the addition of sheets, blankets and pillows, turned the living room couch into a very comfortable bed. Let it be said that while my family does not generally partake in what eighteenth century Englishmen termed "finery," there does exist among them a proclivity for particular comforts in eating and sleeping arrangements. This works out to my benefit when I spend the night at my grandma's house; the down pillow and comforter were absolutely somnolent and somewhat addictive.

The reason I've been staying overnight in Torrance is that I teach (relatively) early on Saturday mornings at an SAT academy in that city. I leave work on Friday, have dinner at Auntie Tammy's house, then go to grandma's. Having taken to long, hot baths supplemented by leisure reading, I've continued this practice when spending the night.

I bathe in the very same tub that my grandmother used to wash me in when I stayed at her house as a child. She knew the restorative powers of a good soaking; while washing me she always said, "after a bath, you'll feel like a million dollars," with a special stress on "million," the way one might emphasize a secret ingredient in an heirloom family recipe to ensure it isn't forgotten. I've never had a million dollars, but I imagine that if one day I do, my grandmother's wisdom will be vindicated, and I will find that world's riches are almost comparable to the steamy, squeaky clean, warm sensation one experiences after stepping out of the tub.

As I reread Northanger Abbey, the memory of one particular bath in that house wafted through my mind. My grandmother had stepped out of the bathroom to tend to some domestic business (maybe to check a cake, or move the laundry to the drier), and I had to use the toilet. She was gone for what seemed like a very long time, and so, unable to resist the demands of my bowels any longer, I relieved myself in the tub. "Grandma!" I called out. "I did an ounko [Japanese for "poo-poo"] in the bathtub!"

I heard her reply return through the hallway: "That's alright." Quickly following those words, she entered the room, whisked me out of the bath away from the offending deposit, and dried me off. She snatched up my turd and hurled it into the nearby toilet--such was its punishment for escaping at such an inopportune moment.

Such were my reflections on the heroism of my grandmother in dealing with the everyday unpleasantries of life. She was always calm, judicious, and efficient--all qualities I imagine she had honed through raising my father and his six siblings. Her absence makes such memories bittersweet, but I was glad to recall this incident as I relaxed with my book in the hot water nonetheless.