Claw Feet and All

Our friend Chris had more than a few peeves. But we gratefully put up with them because, when in Baltimore, she was the Pack Mother to our unruly gathering of friends. We were a weird kindred of folkies. Chris often said we were escapees from the island of broken toys.

My friend Bill and I were in perpetual motion. Always going somewhere. Looking for something to do, a job worth doing, or chasing some dream. Frequently, we were just going because we were bored with where we were. For me, I was chasing Folksinger Fame. Bill? His feet were even itchier than mine. A poet, painter, sculptor, a primary prerequisite for Bill to want to visit your city was – did it possess a notable art museum? If not, well, we were just passing through.

One of the ways Bill and I made coin of the realm was by salvage. If Boris “the bulldozer” was tearing down a townhouse, we were in there the night before. Salvaging the Santa Domingan Mahogany paneling in the Victorian dining room. Mere scavengers went after the copper, which Boris himself was interested in. Consequently, they got into trouble. He didn’t care about some sticks of dark wood. He wanted nothing to do with the junk on the walls. We’d resell the panels to restorers who were happy to deal with us.

Claw Feet

It was our “rap and scrap” ways with the salvage business that got us into trouble. One night, Chris was complaining bitterly about the barely functional tub in their bathroom. She went on about the wonderful old cast-iron, claw-footed bathtub she had as a girl growing up. Casting a winsome glance our way, she said, “And if my friends could only find one for me, I’m sure that a crab boil could be arranged with all the fixings.” Her husband Bob laughed. Chris was famous for her mastery of preparing crab, and Bill especially would detour fifty miles for good crab.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised that the next morning, a pair of engineer boots was kicking me awake. Bill said that we needed to head over to Boris’. He’d called up this morning, and a ten-dollar bill would get us what Chris wanted. All we had to do was take it away.

The Problem With Taking It Away

The problem was, of course, taking it away. It was on the fourth floor of a building being demolished. We could not lower it outside the building. It would have to go down the rickety stairs, which had twisty landings. And of course it had to be done before Monday when the building was due to come down.

I took one look at Bill, and saw that gleam in his eye that meant trouble. There was no way I could see that the tub was going anywhere without a crane. Bill thought otherwise.

So Saturday morning saw a bunch of hungover Folkies, in need of many pots of coffee and boxes of donuts, untangling an assortment of tackle, ropes, and planking. Using a combination of brute strength, rigging, and persuasion, the seven of us coddled, shoved, occasionally dropped, and maneuvered the tub down four twisty flights. From there, it was into the bed of a pickup truck.

Once back at Bob and Chris’s, a friend who was a plumber’s assistant installed the tub with help from Bill and me. That night, there were shrieks of joy as Chris discovered the “new” tub. Dinner was delayed as she took a leisurely soak in her cast-iron claw-footed tub. The crab boil was planned that very night. Later, we spent time bandaging and treating the scrapes, bruises, and scratches that came from the move.

Onward

Within a few days, Bill and I decided to split for Boston. His soon-to-be former wife was stirring things up, and Bill chose to be elsewhere. I had a deep hankering to see Harvard Square, so I decided to go there too.

Some weeks later, an envelope arrived at our digs on Boston’s Beacon Hill – the Folkie Palace. In it was a photo of Chris covered to her chin in bubble bath, enjoying the new tub. On the back was a note expressing her appreciation.

Years later, Bob and Chris bought a house in the Countryside. But the tub moved with them. On my last visit there, I had an opportunity to enjoy a soak, and recalled the descent down the last flight of stairs when we used the tub as a sort of massive sleigh to ride down from the last landing. I still wonder how we were able to do it without killing ourselves.