Under the Stars & Bathing. ~ Lori Parr

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loriparr

In my early ’20s I was vagabonding around The West, searching for the meaning to my life.

Growing up in Salt Lake City, The Wasatch range was our immediate fun fix, but a 6 p.m. decision to wake up in the desert often put us on a four hour trajectory.

The Southern and Western deserts were our playgrounds.

To be privately guided by a friend in-the-know to a campsite like Black Dragon Wash, arrive in the dark, throw our bags out on a sandstone slab with nothing but stars for light, well, it was always spectacular. Especially when we woke to sun gleaming golden on desert varnished walls that towered a thousand feet over our heads. The sky was so blue it hurt our eyes to look at it; the quiet so deep our ears played tricks on us.

On one of these occasions, we bombed down to Moab, and my friend suggested we drive up-river, east of town to Fisher Towers. We’d visit a friend of hers.

The young woman invited us in to her little off-grid adobe for lunch. I cannot even recall her name, but my impression of her strikes a deep chord in me to this day. She was seemingly so content in her rustic lifestyle. Town was far enough away to make it a project to go for supplies.

The wind, the sun, her self-imposed solitude struck me as almost too much to handle, but maybe it was because I was 20 and hadn’t a clue about settling into myself.

She toured us around her house, her landscape, proudly showing us things she had crafted inside and desert resilient flowers she had planted outside.

She asked, “Do you wanna see the bathtub?”

Of course we did, we were enchanted. She led us over a red sandy hillock and there, out in the wide open, was her bathtub. Again, that blue sky; creamy grey/green sagebrush; the reddest dirt you ever saw; all of it punctuating the magnificent view of the Towers. I was aghast at the very idea of it.

I can’t remember how she filled it. Was it with a pump from the mighty Colorado?

All of us young punks wanted to know how she felt about getting naked in front of God and everybody.

“Well, the nearest neighbor’s a quarter mile that way, and it’s hard to see detail that far. And, if I take a bath in broad daylight, I pull these curtains,” she said as she showed us the sheer linen hung from a make-shift pergola fashioned from driftwood that she pulled outta the Colorado.

The little pile of juniper logs, the way the white curtains floated lazily on the red desert breeze, the thought of having to be patient enough for the fire to heat the water to the perfect soaking point; I took a snapshot in my mind and reserved the feelings it stirred deep in my soul.

I went on about my life.

I ended up in Montana. Married, started two business, had a home, a lovely perennial garden. Got mixed up in the fray of a little lifetime. I got divorced almost 20 years later, left the house, and the gardens, suffered a major, catastrophic crop loss all in the same year. The crop had established me in the community. I turned 50, a definitive mid-life/identity crisis. I no longer had my married name, my home, my garden, and lost the usual means of making my living.

I lived in apartments, always at the whim of the landlord, until the divorce money ran out. When I got kicked out of the last one, that was it. The dog and I had one place left to go. I bought a storage trailer, and moved all my things up to the piece of land I purchased with money mom left me upon her death back in 2004. I’d placed a locally built tiny cabin there not long after purchasing the land and had stayed there every weekend since. The cabin was my playhouse.

I was seeing a guy during this time. He wasn’t the best fit for me in this vulnerable period, but he was damn good at fixing things and I was in damn big need of being fixed. He was handy. He let me crash at his place in town during the week, shower, do my laundry. He wired the cabin for solar, helped me finish an outbuilding, brought me tractor implements he’d find in long forgotten boneyards.

One day, he called while I was at my cabin.

“Hey, I’m at a big box store, they have a scratch and dent bathtub for $5.”

I just said, “Bring it on!”

We positioned it near enough to the creek so I could fill it with my pump. I set a pallet next to it to stand on, and he made me a small one to sit on so the fire wouldn’t scorch my behind. A small pit was dug underneath to accommodate the fire. I stacked wood under the porch of the near-by shed. An old army ammo can keeps the mice from eating bath salts and soap, and I keep a thermometer there too.

We both knew we wouldn’t last. He always joked that he was making everything nice enough so I could leave him. And leave him I did.

The parcel of land is secluded from the main dirt road, and three miles from the highway. My nearest neighbor is a quarter-mile away. The cabin and tub are out of sight, tucked in a hollow next to a small sing-song creek, and the Mission Mountains and Bison Range afford me scenery. It is quiet, and far enough away that I don’t get many visitors.

I’ve been proving up on this ground since I bought it. My work here is long, hot and dirty. I get so dirty. The convenience of a self-made outdoor shower allows me quick clean-up. It has a spectacular long sunset view with no neighbors for miles.

But sometimes, on warm summer nights, when I am as dirty as can be, I fill the tub from the small burbling creek. It takes about five minutes with my small irrigation pump. I start a fire under it, set my candle lanterns on the tub shelf, go inside the cabin and make dinner while the water heats to a warm 106 degrees.

It takes a little more than an hour, and I time it so the sun is sinking over the hill as I’m finishing dinner. I bring the dog’s blanket tubside, along with a bottle of wine, shampoo, a towel, and some cozy clothes to put on after the fire has died to glowing coals.

As the gloaming slides through to the end of another day, and stars fill a sky otherwise black as cinder, I slip into my outdoor tub for an hour or more of pure luxury, feel the gentle breezes, listen to the creek and the caroling coyote chorus.

On the peak of the shed, my resident owl is perched, watching over me.

I recline and sometimes think back to that girl in the desert who had an outdoor bathtub.

 

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Lori Parr

Lori Parr is originally from Salt Lake City but has lived in Montana for 21 years. She has always worked in bookstores, plant nurseries, or with horses. The importance of the Almighty Mother Nature was instilled in her at a young age. She doesn’t have much in the way of formal education but has received numerous diplomas and accolades from the School of Hard Knocks. For a dozen years in Missoula, Lori operated her own business called Kinship Gardens. She designed and installed the landscape at Good Food Store and is currently redesigning the patio at Scotty’s Table. For another dozen years, she has been known in the community as Lavender Lori. She still works both these angles but to a lesser degree so she can concentrate on her long kindled passion of writing. She decided to write her first book about something she knows; Lavender Farming Montana Style. It is due out in October 2014. She currently lives in St. Ignatius.

Comments

15 Responses to “Under the Stars & Bathing. ~ Lori Parr”

  1. Lori Parr says:

    Elephant Journal, you rock!

  2. Scott Trask says:

    28 years of back yard baths. Snow wind rain and stars. Cape Cod is a sanctuary but we must be vigilant. Someday the world will see. Freedom is more important than a lawn. We need to connect with nature not try to conquer her.

  3. What a relaxing way to end my day! I was just fantasizing about relaxing in this outdoor bathtub and about getting lost with sandi on her way to Taos!

  4. guest says:

    Thank you for the inspiration! One day I will have an outdoor bathtub…

  5. Jim says:

    I can see it! Thank you.

  6. bringingyouohm says:

    This had never even occurred to me as a possibility. I am going to dream of this tonight!

  7. Suzi Nelson says:

    Build it and she will come! I am so down with this. WooHoo!

  8. Mike says:

    "We both knew he wouldn't last…"? I would be curious to hear his perspective on that. I hope you repaid him for the things he provided. Ugh. I'm truly tired of the "love yourself" taker's ,mentality. Sometimes a person puts into a relationship because they care. It is sad to see that compassion so readily consumed and (maybe) never repaid.

    • Lori Parr says:

      Ya, uh Mike, when he and I started up his 'ex-girlfriend' called me two months later to kindly tell me she and he were still having sex. That is another story for another time. The guy is a bit of a rake and a rogue. Lots of fun but not trustworthy. If you start a 'relationship' from there it goes nowhere. A lot more to that off-the-cuff remark than you could possibly know from a brief essay.

  9. Andrea says:

    Thank you so much! I love how you describe the solitude, nature and self reliance. These are something I yearn for as well. Very inspirational! 🙂

  10. Sonnische says:

    Divine! I read this aloud to my husband. We both wondered how you cope with the winters up there, probably skipping the tub or outdoor shower. Thank you so much for sharing this story and gorgeous photo-illustration. Namaste!

    • Lori Parr says:

      Glad you enjoyed it!
      I just heat the water to a higher temp. And I have the cabin wood stove cranked up so I really appreciate both the hot bath and the warm cabin for the 100 yard dash with a wet head when its below zero out.
      I have also perfected the 'french shower' inside the cabin. Heat a gallon of water on the wood stove. Wash hair with half and soap up and rinse off bod with the other half. Been looking for a wash tub to stand in so to reuse the gray water. I'm not a person who requires a daily shower, so am happy if I get 2 a week.
      Also have friends in town whose I can use when I'm lazy.

  11. Kari says:

    It's not the bath tub that has made me rejoice over this wonderful article, but you Lori … You have know idea how your story has paralleled my own life to a point. Just reading your newfound life has made me see that life doesn't end when your 50, rather it's just began.

    • Lori Parr says:

      Sister, 50 is the new 20! Seriously. I know exactly what I will not put up with, can suddenly see how self sabotage has been a running theme, and am choosing to move forward and feel armed with experience, potential, and intention. Thanks so much for reading, and sharing your comment.

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