Living in the cabin, while better by far than being homeless, was a huge adjustment for us. We quickly discovered that although there were two sinks in the house, the plumbing was broken, allowing water to run out of the broken pipes, which resulted in a huge puddle of water in the front yard. The toilet didn't work at all. The bathtub drained without any apparent problems. None of these had water running to them, and although there was a wellhouse on the property, there didn't seem to be any water on the place.
This meant that we had to haul water to the cabin. Hauling water entailed procuring plastic 55 gallon barrels, rinsing them of whatever chemicals or substances had been in them before, getting hoses for the barrrels, loading them into the truck, driving to a source of water, filling them with water, bringing the water back, and unloading it at the house; a problem because 55 gallons of water weighs approximately 440 pounds. Filling the barrels to begin with was also problematic. Our truck still bore California plates and at that time, Californians were widly unpopular in northern Idaho. The Leonard Paul store in Coolin, a easy walk from our house, refused to let us have water, and neither would any of the other businesses in Coolin. They let us know that there were man eating bears and lions in north Idaho, and that we wouldn't make it through the winter; we should leave Idaho right away. And of course, we were most unwelcome; when the neighbor down the end of the small dirt road to Chase Lake heard Californians were moving in, he went into the cabin and vandalized it, punching holes in the drywall and breaking the window of the back door. We knew it was him because the prints on the walls matched his bootprints..... In the end, we wound up driving all the way to Mark's cabin, which was at least half an hour each way and cost a lot of gas.
Getting the barrels off of the truck was a project in its own right. The rope that held the barrels together towards the front of the truck had to be untied. Then the rope was tied to the back of the truck bed and looped around the closest of the barrels, towards the base so that it wouldn't tip over when the rope was pulled on. One of us would get behind the barrel, using our hips and legs to brace against it and turn and push it to the back of the truck, while several other people pulled on the rope. At all times, pains had to be taken not to allow the barrel to fall over or tip. Once the barrel had been moved to the tailgate of the truck, it was either pushed onto wooden platforms that Eliyah had built outside the cabin, or they were pushed into the house while Eliyah squirted dish soap all over the threshhold of the door in order to ease the barrel's transit into the house. There were barrels for drinking water and "wash water" which was only for baths and washing dishes, not for food. The drinking barrels usually came into the house while the wash barrels sat outside on the platform. Now getting the water out of the barrels was a problem. We used the garden hoses to siphon the water out of the barrels; the end of the hose had to be bent and put on a nail to keep the water from running out of the hose and to prevent losing the siphon.
Then there was the matter of utilizing this water, since it couldn't run down the kitchen sink or be run through the plumbing. Drinking water was used directly from the hose, run straight into the cup or saucepan or whatever. Water for washing hands was kept in a plastic pitcher in the bathroom next to a big stainless steel bowl. We would wet our hands in the dirty water already in the bowl, soap up, and then rinse with clean water from the pitcher. Eliyah couldn't seem to pour his own water and always yelled for us to pour it for him, and then would berate us further if the flow of water was not consistent enough, copious enough, or too copious, etc. Water for dishes or bathing was heated on the woodstove in big aluminum stockpots, which we never used for food; we all knew that aluminum was poisonous and caused Alzheimer's syndrome, just like fluoride toothpaste caused teeth to crumble and fall apart in your mouth. After the water was boiling, it was poured into a plastic dishpan full of dishes in the sink. Then a little cold water was poured in too, so we wouldn't scald our hands. The other dishpan was filled with water too, and the dishes were rinsed in it before being put into the dish drainer. After we'd washed all the dishes, the water was poured into a bucket under the sink, and then we had to dump the old dishwater outside away from the house.
In order to take a bath, we would boil a large pot or two of wash water on the woodstove. These would then be emptied into a 10 gallon bucket which was perched on 2X4s across one end of the bathtub. Cold water was then added until the water was warm. We would wet ourselves sparingly, soap up, and use pitchers to pour just enough water to rinse ourselves off. Two or three pitchers full of water were usually enough for this part of the bathing. Then we would wet our hair, suds it up, and rinse it off the same way except that this used up more water. The bathroom was the coldest room in the house because it had two poorly chinked and uninsulated log walls, so except for the summer we usually shivered the entire time.
The toilet was an adventure too. We used a five gallon plastic bucket and a portable camping toilet seat that fit perfectly over the bucket. Once the bucket had been used for half a day and was beginning to fill, one of the kids had to take it to the wooden box out in the yard, remove the lid from the box, and dump the contents of the bucket, then rinse it with wash water and dump the wash water into the box too. Needless to say, the bathroom stank.
Speaking of the bathroom, that was where our refrigerated foods were kept, too, because it was the coldest room. With no fridge, we kept the milk, butter, and other perishables in coolers with blocks of ice, much as Randy and Vicki Weaver had when we first met them. It was kind of offputting to have our food in the smelly bathroom with a bucketfull of raw sewage, but believe it or not, we did become accustomed to the smell after a while. I mean, you could definitely smell it, but it was a familiar if offensive odor, not one that hit you in the face and shocked you. It was more like we accepted that bathrooms smelled like outhouses.
The worst of living in that house wasn't the bucket of sewage, which we called The Pot, or having to measure every precious drop of water and reuse it until it was truly filthy; it was the dark, dim lighting. Our only light came from a handful of kerosene lamps. Even with two or three lamps clustered together, you had to read with your face right next to the page, but it was rare indeed that anyone actually got that many oil lamps all to themselves, because they were needed for washing the dishes, cooking the food (which required a 2 burner Coleman campstove), and for other people to see what they were doing. The dim, dark light made it difficult to see and lent a depressing atmosphere to a family that already wasn't very happy.
This meant that we had to haul water to the cabin. Hauling water entailed procuring plastic 55 gallon barrels, rinsing them of whatever chemicals or substances had been in them before, getting hoses for the barrrels, loading them into the truck, driving to a source of water, filling them with water, bringing the water back, and unloading it at the house; a problem because 55 gallons of water weighs approximately 440 pounds. Filling the barrels to begin with was also problematic. Our truck still bore California plates and at that time, Californians were widly unpopular in northern Idaho. The Leonard Paul store in Coolin, a easy walk from our house, refused to let us have water, and neither would any of the other businesses in Coolin. They let us know that there were man eating bears and lions in north Idaho, and that we wouldn't make it through the winter; we should leave Idaho right away. And of course, we were most unwelcome; when the neighbor down the end of the small dirt road to Chase Lake heard Californians were moving in, he went into the cabin and vandalized it, punching holes in the drywall and breaking the window of the back door. We knew it was him because the prints on the walls matched his bootprints..... In the end, we wound up driving all the way to Mark's cabin, which was at least half an hour each way and cost a lot of gas.
Getting the barrels off of the truck was a project in its own right. The rope that held the barrels together towards the front of the truck had to be untied. Then the rope was tied to the back of the truck bed and looped around the closest of the barrels, towards the base so that it wouldn't tip over when the rope was pulled on. One of us would get behind the barrel, using our hips and legs to brace against it and turn and push it to the back of the truck, while several other people pulled on the rope. At all times, pains had to be taken not to allow the barrel to fall over or tip. Once the barrel had been moved to the tailgate of the truck, it was either pushed onto wooden platforms that Eliyah had built outside the cabin, or they were pushed into the house while Eliyah squirted dish soap all over the threshhold of the door in order to ease the barrel's transit into the house. There were barrels for drinking water and "wash water" which was only for baths and washing dishes, not for food. The drinking barrels usually came into the house while the wash barrels sat outside on the platform. Now getting the water out of the barrels was a problem. We used the garden hoses to siphon the water out of the barrels; the end of the hose had to be bent and put on a nail to keep the water from running out of the hose and to prevent losing the siphon.
Then there was the matter of utilizing this water, since it couldn't run down the kitchen sink or be run through the plumbing. Drinking water was used directly from the hose, run straight into the cup or saucepan or whatever. Water for washing hands was kept in a plastic pitcher in the bathroom next to a big stainless steel bowl. We would wet our hands in the dirty water already in the bowl, soap up, and then rinse with clean water from the pitcher. Eliyah couldn't seem to pour his own water and always yelled for us to pour it for him, and then would berate us further if the flow of water was not consistent enough, copious enough, or too copious, etc. Water for dishes or bathing was heated on the woodstove in big aluminum stockpots, which we never used for food; we all knew that aluminum was poisonous and caused Alzheimer's syndrome, just like fluoride toothpaste caused teeth to crumble and fall apart in your mouth. After the water was boiling, it was poured into a plastic dishpan full of dishes in the sink. Then a little cold water was poured in too, so we wouldn't scald our hands. The other dishpan was filled with water too, and the dishes were rinsed in it before being put into the dish drainer. After we'd washed all the dishes, the water was poured into a bucket under the sink, and then we had to dump the old dishwater outside away from the house.
In order to take a bath, we would boil a large pot or two of wash water on the woodstove. These would then be emptied into a 10 gallon bucket which was perched on 2X4s across one end of the bathtub. Cold water was then added until the water was warm. We would wet ourselves sparingly, soap up, and use pitchers to pour just enough water to rinse ourselves off. Two or three pitchers full of water were usually enough for this part of the bathing. Then we would wet our hair, suds it up, and rinse it off the same way except that this used up more water. The bathroom was the coldest room in the house because it had two poorly chinked and uninsulated log walls, so except for the summer we usually shivered the entire time.
The toilet was an adventure too. We used a five gallon plastic bucket and a portable camping toilet seat that fit perfectly over the bucket. Once the bucket had been used for half a day and was beginning to fill, one of the kids had to take it to the wooden box out in the yard, remove the lid from the box, and dump the contents of the bucket, then rinse it with wash water and dump the wash water into the box too. Needless to say, the bathroom stank.
Speaking of the bathroom, that was where our refrigerated foods were kept, too, because it was the coldest room. With no fridge, we kept the milk, butter, and other perishables in coolers with blocks of ice, much as Randy and Vicki Weaver had when we first met them. It was kind of offputting to have our food in the smelly bathroom with a bucketfull of raw sewage, but believe it or not, we did become accustomed to the smell after a while. I mean, you could definitely smell it, but it was a familiar if offensive odor, not one that hit you in the face and shocked you. It was more like we accepted that bathrooms smelled like outhouses.
The worst of living in that house wasn't the bucket of sewage, which we called The Pot, or having to measure every precious drop of water and reuse it until it was truly filthy; it was the dark, dim lighting. Our only light came from a handful of kerosene lamps. Even with two or three lamps clustered together, you had to read with your face right next to the page, but it was rare indeed that anyone actually got that many oil lamps all to themselves, because they were needed for washing the dishes, cooking the food (which required a 2 burner Coleman campstove), and for other people to see what they were doing. The dim, dark light made it difficult to see and lent a depressing atmosphere to a family that already wasn't very happy.
posted by chamoisee at
4:42 PM
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