Copyright 1994(c)

                         HOT TUB HOLLERS
                          By Buzz Lange
 
     I have a friend on Waldron Island, near Seattle, Washington. 
She has no running anything in or out, just a little house on a
magical island with the damndest rustic people spread as far apart
as they could possibly get. I feel a genuine warmth in my heart
whenever I'm around a gal who can take care of herself as well as
she can. 
     When I visited her, I needed about three days for my ears to
stop ringing, and then I could adjust to the quiet and try to fit
myself into her world, a world frozen in time long ago. 
     I remember one February a few years back, I had just showed
up and was getting used to the place, what with the wood stove and
lanterns and boots and things like that. Laurie had a half buried
iron bathtub in the back yard. You pumped water in, and then you
built a fire underneath it. A poor man's hot tub. We invited the
neighborhood over, both people, filled the tub up, and lit it off
that night before dinner. 
     One at a time, after a wonderful candle-light meal, we tiptoed
out in the snow in our birthday suits and kerosene lanterns. My
turn came, and I gritted my teeth, stripped, and padded out,
Florida tan fading with each freezing step. When I arrived at the
tub, I was dismayed at the reddish-brown, cloudy color permeating
the water. Apparently some of us had not gone through the snow but
around it in the warmer mud oozing between the well and the tub. 
I quickly skimmed off the ashes, twigs, and other flotsam. I even
pulled out a two foot, four-by-six chunk of firewood bobbing near
the surface. Once cleared, the water seemed a bit more inviting.
     The fire snapped away under the tub, and sizzling flares lit
the pine trees all around. Flashing in exaggerated colors and
shadows, they danced in the moonlight, each one craning for a
closer look. 
     Shivering from the cold, I slipped over the rim and quickly
ducked in under the steaming, almost bubbling, murky water. I took
a deep breath, closed my eyes, and let go of the edge; I eagerly
sank, deep in anticipation of the welcom warmth to come. 
     The second I touched the bottom, I bellowed out a fearsome
holler that brought everyone in earshot running--shovels, guns, and
axe handles ready, clothes or no clothes--they all came running,
ready for battle. Quickly they surrounded me and assessed the
situation. Then they lowered their weapons, and with every wary
eye glued to the trembling red-faced figure arched from rim to rim,
high above the water--all in unison, they broke out in a roaring,
whooping laughter. 
     I had just discovered the true purpose of the floating
four-by-six. Such was the rustic life on Waldron Island. 
                               END