I moved into my Salem house in 1993. But not immediately after purchasing it.
The house was built in 1925. And, even though it was well-maintained, the entire upstairs required work. New plaster. Paint. Wallpaper. Carpet.
While my brother, a friend, and I were busy gouging, tearing, and steaming inside, I decided to make the first major buy for the house outside. A hot tub. A really nice hot tub.
I knew the history of hot tubs for most families. Used daily for a week. Then once a week. And once a month.
Eventually, the hot tub turns into the crazy aunt in the attic. Something to be tolerated rather than enjoyed.
That was not the relationship I developed with my hot tub. We met every night for dinner and reading. I would spend almost two hours every evening in its watery embrace.
Put "hot tub" in the search function at the top of the blog. At least fifteen posts -- starting in 2007 -- feature my adventures in my inland sea.
All relations come to an end at some point. Even though it was a regular part of my life, the hot tub began falling apart bit by bit before I left for Mexico. On subsequent visits, the inevitable erosion continued.
First the control door -- then the skirting -- succumbed to dry rot. When I was in Salem in November, the gardener managed to cut the power cable. Flat-lining the hot tub.
And I was glad of it. I would have eventually needed to get rid of the hot tub. Selling it, if it was working.
In death there was but one option. Put it on craigslist. Free for the taking.
After four false starts, a family showed up with a trailer. And off went my deceased lost love.
My house sitter took care of the details while I was in Mexico earlier this month. When I showed up at the house early on the morning of 27 December, this is what I found.
In a month, I will be on my way back to Mexico -- where I have no hot tub.
But that is a failing that can be remedied.
