Ezra Pound was born in this house.
I did some research. His full name being Ezra Weston Loomis Pound, he was born in Hailey, Idaho- perhaps in the very room I slept in last night- in 1885. He studied lots of stuff and then moved to Europe where he became a very accomplished and admired poet- known primarily for his development of Imagism- which upon learning I first assumed was misspelled, but it's not. Ironically, turns out Imagism stresses clarity and precision of language. It stems from ancient Chinese and Japanese poetry. All this leads me to believe we'd have gotten on swimmingly. We could sit around and criticize people's spelling errors and eat Moo Goo Gai Pan and sushi to our hearts content. If you delve further, you learn that Ezra married some chick named Dorothy Shakespeare (I'm researching her later tonight) and had two kids- a boy and a girl, only one of which could seemingly be bothered to take his last name. He's also got some outstanding facial hair and some very attractive headshots. But. Intriguing as all this may be, none of it leads me to believe that at any point in his long and fascinating life was he forced to undergo the strain and stress of showering upstairs in his own home.
Now- before I launch into my showering debacle, I must first rave. This house is fantastic. It's old as tombs and made of white boards and wrought iron fences. There's an enchanting either apple or chubby green cherry tree adjacent to the curling front walk. Sprinkled with snow. It's riddled with parlors and settees and hardwood floors and shelf upon shelf of old and important books. High blue ceilings, brown velveteen throw pillows, closets stuffed with puffy and soft quilts. A floor to ceiling ancient iron and silver potbellied stove from Detroit Stove Works which we are absolutely not allowed to use but I really don't know what you'd practically use it for anyway unless you were incinerating a body or a cow. A Poptart would lie lonely and alone in its depthless bowels. So, again- this place is fantastic. Not to mention its being pre-stocked with all the toilet paper, paper towels, laundry detergent, butter, and Drano that a girl could wish for. I'm happy as a clam snuggled into a jar of peanut butter. But.
The shower. The shower takes place in the bathroom. Which is upstairs. I entered the bathroom last night for the first time. This is how it went down....
The white, pearly doorknob is cold under my hand. I twist and push. The dark wooden door creaks open. My hands press to my cheeks as I take in the black iron towel rack standing as tall as I and the deep white sink. There's an armchair. A window looking out onto the snowy mountains. I am thinking I am really going to enjoy spending perhaps most of the next five weeks in this bathroom when I turn to take in what will no doubt be the transcendent sight of the toilet when I see it. The sign. The framed, bolded, 50 point font sign upon the toilet featuring your INSTRUCTIONS. I lean cautiously forward. Most people, I feel, don't need instructions on using the toilet past their third year of life. I, at least, had pretty much memorized what to do by that point.
"Water damage in the master bathroom will be disastrous to the dining room wallpaper. Please use extra caution."
So. Extra caution in using the toilet? I decide to assume they mean the shower and thereby relieve myself of having to imagine the epic toilet misdemeanors which could have resulted in the rooms being damaged an entire floor below.
I am pleased to report I use the toilet without having to call the fire department and then boldly turn my attention to the shower. It's one of those clawfoot tubs which stands entirely apart from the wall. It's got white curtains and liners on both sides of the tub. I figure this is a quality precaution and that I may well succeed at this without much difficulty. In I leap.
After I regain consciousness and pick myself up from the floor of the tub I stand dripping and reeling with the knowledge that there does indeed exist in the world a shower with stronger water pressure than Robyn and Ginnie O'Willard's. Fortunately, I have experience with that shower and so may be up to the challenge. It's no small feat to successfully wield razor and loofah all while keeping upright under the poundin deluge and having at least one hand over all your tenderest parts at all times. I check over my shoulder ever twenty seconds to verify that the two liners are indeed meeting at the back of the tub so no water will escape. It's going well. As the steam gathers though, the rubber plastic liners start sucking into the center of the tub. The shower becomes narrower and narrower until I start to feel a hair claustrophobic and like I'm showering inside of a condom or the slit of a Kleenex box. I try to think more positively about the situation. Maybe it's not that bad. Maybe instead of the previous two likenings, I rather resemble naked wet angel with a messy topknot madly flapping her latex wings as she is buffeted down from heaven during a particularly powerful thunderstorm. Either way, I'm exhausted. Suddenly, the hot water fades. Panic. I cram myself into the space between the front shower pole and the spray and wash as quickly as I can. Done. I whip back the curtain with a flourish. Rather proud of myself and certain in the knowledge that I will refrain from sweating for the next five weeks to spare myself going through that again. Climb out onto the white puffy rug. Have nearly finished toweling off when I notice a glint of light to my left. I squint. Oh no. Oh no. It's light reflecting off of a PUDDLE ON THE FLOOR. I wrench my towel from my body and fall to my knees frantically sopping up the water. I sit back panting. Thinking crabbily in my mind that if you were so concerned about water damage, then why put an oriental carpet in the bathroom and line the room below with golden and mahogany lion and stag wallpaper embossed with the scrolling script, "The Wilderness Shall Blossom as the Rose," which was probably transplanted from the Captain's quarters on the Mayflower.
Bottom line- I'm clean. And a tougher woman for it. I see why you went to Europe, Ezra.
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