For Thursday, October 28, 1999 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 713 words

Hot water awaits

I sure do wish this column was over. Yes, sir, I wish this was the last sentence of the last paragraph, and I was doing copy & paste to email.

Why? Why am I so anxious to get away from this keyboard? Do I have something better to do? Have I a more satisfying way to spend my free time? Yes. Yes, I do. The bubbles are calling.

I have a hot tub.

Alleluia. Ten years in the making, ten years in the dreaming stage, ten years in the blueprint stage, and now it's real. Susan is waiting down the hall. She's giving me typing time before we jump in. She's running around in her suit like it was her birthday.

We had the spa delivered a week ago, finished the electrical work last night, and fired it up for the first time. It got warm enough for use real close to bedtime. We hopped in it for a while, had a joyous christening, and went to bed, vowing justice for the following night.

That's tonight. 156 words.

How many years Susan and I stood in our backyard, arms folded, pointing to this corner and that corner, saying, "There's a good spot for a hot tub," and "There's another good place for a hot tub."

It's out there now.

How many times we walked around our yard, crouching, pretending to be in hot water. How many times we looked up at the stars and wished we could be looking up at the stars, sitting in bubbles.

If I hold my breath, I can hear the jets purring.

How many times we wrote checks to Humboldt and Santa Cruz, purchased books, paid rents, and provided pocket change.

How many times we spent wisely and saved frugally, buying bulk groceries and putting money into retirement funds.

How many times we did our own household repairs in order to save money on contractors. I've learned a bit of brick and cement masonry, carpentry, plumbing, electrical and tile work, cable and telephone installation, linoleum and carpet laying, skip trowelling and gardening, all to save a buck.

We have on occasion called in technicians. We've had the old washer, dryer, and dishwasher fixed repeatedly. We've drained that last 100,000 miles out of all our Toyotas. My van looks like it was used to haul lab monkeys.

It was time for a change, a splash.

We're calling it Bubba, sometimes Bubbette. Bubbette is out there now, waiting, waiting, waiting for us to give it meaning, to give its purring a purpose.

As I wrote before, the catalyst that pushed us into reifying our fantasy was that our daughter, Kristi, a recent college graduate, just bought a hot tub, ahead of us, ahead of her own parents, our own kid whom we put through college. My, my.

Sure, we could have bought a hot tub anytime we wanted, if we really wanted to buy one. It was a matter of timing, and because we finally agreed on the best location, and because our kids had one.

Lucky for us, we asked other people for advice, and got suggestions that altered the final tub site. John Blount called me one night, shortly after my last hot tub article. He said, "Steve, put it close to the door."

I had chosen a spot based on view, at the far side of the yard, high on a breezy hill. In his experience he said he sees that less than half of all tub owners use their spas on a regular basis. The ones who do generally put them close to the house. Our bubbly friends, the Lunas, concurred. They said, "Keep it by the door."

Two weeks ago friends and I poured a slab outside the back door. Seven guys guided Bubba down two flights of stairs on delivery day and dropped it into place, snug. Susan and I read the manuals and watched the video repeatedly while the electrician ran the dedicated cable. He was working in his spare evenings, so it took a few days. 671 words.

And, now, at last, at long last, it has arrived. I have reached my final paragraph. My wish has come true. I am free to be. "Honey, pull down some towels. Here I come."