The Water Saga

You never truly know how much water a household uses until you have to carry that water in 5-gallon pails and washed-out milk jugs. Just doing the dishes or washing your hair is an adventure in minimizing water use.

Thirty-seven years ago, I found myself a young mom living without running water or plumbing in a rustic (nice euphemism for tar paper shack) cabin in the great North Woods of Wisconsin. I spent many years of my life working to attain better living conditions, and achieved my goal. But fast-forward to 2012 and I'm again in a dilapidated cabin in the north woods without running water.

It's a hazard of life in the north where pipes freeze if not buried deeply enough. Sometimes even with your best efforts, heat tapes, insulation and all, the water supply lines freeze anyway. Somehow when I was younger it was more of an adventure. Now it's more "oh my aching back."

When I was a mere 23 years of age, I followed my second husband up to the northland. We were as green as the elm we tried to burn that year, but we were full of enthusiasm and optimism. We settled temporarily in a shack by the magnificent Chippewa River, just below the dam that makes Lake Holcombe. The shack had electricity, but no running water, except the river. Toilet time was done in a two-seater outhouse. In the summer it was full of flies and in the winter you just didn't waste any time and read the newspaper.

At the time, we had just one son, only two years old. Little did I know that three years later there would be another son and we'd still be in that shack.

We carried water in pails from the river up a steep hill 300 feet to the house. This water was for bathing, household cleaning, and the animals. Once a week we'd load up the Ford truck with every available milk jug and water vessel with a lid and head to Plagge Brother's spring, about five miles away. There, crisp, clean, cold water ran from a hillside spring. It ran year round even in the most frigid below zero temperatures. In the deepest winter with snow piled high, watercress still grew at the bottom of the spring. We'd always take a few nibbles to remind ourselves what fresh greens tasted like.

Such was our routine for eight long years until I dragged the family, kicking and screaming into a more modern country home. We took a picture of ourselves standing by the kitchen sink with the water running from the tap to mark the wondrous moment. The youngest son took three baths in one day he was so excited about water and indoor plumbing.

From there, we graduated to an even bigger place with two indoor bathrooms on acreage in Kansas. The boys finished their growing up there. That house saw us through a divorce, teen trauma, and a remarriage and divorce again. Yeah, I don't have a great track record for picking husbands.

It was the last divorce that sent my life into a tailspin. I lost my home of 18 years, most of my horses and everything I had worked for all my adult life. There I was at 55 starting completely over from scratch. The tailspin continued. I had to leave a rental farm that I loved and lost my job of nine years. The tailspin continued as I battled depression and tried to live on unemployment income and part-time work. Then I had to leave another farm where I loved being. And it hit me. I was homeless. Not just me, but two horses and a dog, as well. The prospect was daunting.

So I loaded what personal belongings I still had, my dog and horses into a trailer and truck and headed back north, 600 miles, to live with my oldest son and granddaughter. We've been here a year now. Last April I found a cute, quaint cabin in the woods. It was perfect for one person. It had acreage for the horses and my dog was welcome. Then my son and granddaughter had to move, so we squeezed them, two more dogs and an iguana into my place. It was at least bigger than his place.

Spring was glorious. I had trails right near the farm to ride. We planted a garden. Summer came and we played at the lake and it was still glorious. Autumn came and we installed insulation on the windows and a wood burning stove in the house for warmth. It has been comfortable and a sufficient place to live until recently, when one day we had no water from the tap.

Now we have a new routine. Twice a day we load up the truck with buckets and jugs and head to the barn where the landlady's water is still running. We heat up water on the stove to do dishes and take "possible baths," like we did decades ago. What is a possible bath you ask? As an old timer told me when I moved up here in 1975, you heat water on the stove and pour it into a washtub. Then you wash up as far as possible and down as far as possible. And when no one is looking, you wash "possible."

We make jokes about it, trying to make the best of the situation. We remind ourselves that we are warm and well-fed and have a roof over us to keep the snow off our heads. But with each bucket lugged, I can't help but wish things were a little easier.

For the foreseeable future, this is it. The cabin owner and I have gone round and round about the source of the problem, but at this point it doesn't matter because she can't afford to fix it. And you don't find an affordable place for three people and a menagerie overnight.

When we do get running water again, I'll be the one to take a shower three times in one day to celebrate.