Since 1997, I’ve been the owner of an antique bathtub. It’s a large white-enameled vessel, bigger than most. It sits on a platform instead of claw feet. The tub migrated to my house from the school where I used to teach. It was a play prop that lived in my garage, and later, my backyard. It held tomato plants once. When that didn’t work out, it sat in the flower bed, empty. Well, almost empty. I’m not counting random leaves or occasional gecko.
Every time my dad saw it, he suggested I give it to my sister to use as a watering trough for her cows. Never mind that my sister lives 500 miles away or that the tub is gargantuan-heavy, or that I paid good money for it. Dad couldn’t be dissuaded. As far as he was concerned, it was good for watering cows.
I once had delusions about remodeling my bathroom. I fantasized soaking in the massive white basin, filled with fragrant bubbles, while I read trashy novels and ate bonbons. Like that would ever happen.
Bacon joked about making it into a fish pond. This week his dream came true. I plugged the drain, filled the tub with water, and made a dozen trips to Lowe’s for pond supplies. After three days of work and one emergency call to Cowgirl Crisp (my sister), I am the proud owner of a ginormous goldfish bowl.