Bathtub Stories

BATHTUB STORIES

Ah, perfectly so, yes, young man, thank you. That warmth feels good to these old bones…

I have to tell you, I woke up this morning with an old memory on my mind. It’s a story from my childhood during the Great Depression, when we lived on the south side of Chicago. I couldn’t have been any older than 5 or 6 at the time... Funny what comes back to a man 90 years down the line. I thought of it because of the story I read last night in this book that my daughter brought me. It sounded so familiar, but I just couldn’t place it. I think I drove Deborah crazy ruminating on it, because finally she said, “Just sleep on it, Dad. It’ll probably come to you in the morning.” She was right, as usual.

It’s a story I first heard from an old Chinese man who lived in our building all those years ago. Every night, as I recall, or most nights anyway, he would sit in an old bathtub out back of the apartments, and all us kids would gather around and he would tell us stories. I know, it seems unlikely now, but it was a long time ago. Those were different times. It was an old cast iron tub in back of the building, back in the scrub where we kids used to play. It had lion’s feet or something, I think, that it sat high up on. I remember playing in it with my little friends, hide and seek and that kind of thing. All day until it got dark.

At dusk every evening there would be a troupe of little Chinese kids start coming out of their ground floor apartment with buckets of water. Back and forth with their wooden buckets, filling up that old tub. Wooden buckets. Heavy old things, I remember… Then a little girl – must have been about my age… what was her name? Lin or Ling? I think the family name was Wang or something... It doesn’t matter now, I guess… Well, this little girl would come out of the door leading her grandpa to the old tub back there in the corner of the yard. The old man had a big towel wrapped around his waist, and she would help him step into the water. Then he would somehow ease himself down in as he unwrapped the towel and drape it across the tub in one smooth easy motion. Very graceful, as I see it now in my mind. He would sit down and sigh and Ling… yes, that was her name… would say, “Are you comfortable, Grandfather?” And he would say, “Perfectly so, Sweetheart. Thank you.” Just like that. I think he said it every single time. “Perfectly so.”

Mr. Wang would sit in the water and close his eyes. We couldn’t see him too well on account of it was getting dark, but I think he closed his eyes. Then we would wait. There was always a bunch of us. I don’t know now anymore, but 10 or 20 probably most nights, and we would all be very quiet, waiting, the Chinese kids and the rest of us together. We didn’t have any TV or anything, you know, much less computers to mess with. We had radio, I think, but this was something far more special to look forward to, and we waited quietly. After a few minutes Ling would pipe up. “Grandfather?” she would say. And he would answer, “Yes, little one?” And she would say, “Will you tell us a story?” It was like a ritual. And then he would tell us a story. Every night, I think. Or most nights, in any case.

I’m sure that that is where I first heard this. I just read it in that book last night, but Mr. Wang’s version comes back to me now a little differently. This is how I remember it.

Many, many years ago in China there was an order of monks who lived in a secluded monastery. All men, you know, living together, no women. They weren’t even supposed to think about women. But of course they had to go into town now and again, so they had rules about it. Essentially don’t look and don’t touch. Well, one damp and rainy morning two monks from the cloister, a Master and a novice, set out for town, the Master leading the way. All was fine until they came upon a beautiful young woman alongside the road who needed help. She wanted to cross the muddy road, but no one would help her. She was all dressed up, the way I picture her, with long skirts and tiny pretty slippers, and she had no way to get across. Well, these two monks came along and the young monk dutifully lowered his eyes, and was about to hurry past, when he saw the old monk suddenly pick up the young lady and carry her across!

Ha! Can you just see that young man’s face? Well, I guess he must have been pretty upset, as kids generally are when their teachers break the rules, but he followed obediently along in silence. By evening though he felt he needed to say something. He spoke up anxiously. “Master,” he said, “we have always been told that we are not to have anything to do with women, yet you picked a lady up in your arms!” He could say no more, for distress. The Master peered closely at his student. “Yes,” he said finally, “the woman by the side of the road. She needed help, so I carried her across, didn’t I? But then I set her down again. Are you still carrying her?”

Hm. “Are you still carrying her?” Good answer, don’t you think? Good story. This new book version tells it a little differently though. It has the old man carrying the woman across a stream. I suppose those stories change over time, don’t they? And this book has it as a Japanese tale, which doesn’t seem right. Maybe that’s what threw me. Who knows? For all I know it comes originally from the Japanese. But I like Mr. Wang’s version.

I think he told us a lot of stories involving Masters and students. I’m remembering another one now that does have a river in it. I haven’t thought of it in years, but it was always one of my favorites. In this story there was an old man who was known for his wisdom. He must have been enlightened because he was being followed by a young seeker who was pestering him for the key to enlightenment… Ha! Be careful what you ask for! The Master didn’t send him away, but he ignored him completely and wouldn’t teach him at all. Wouldn’t even speak to him, I gather, until one day when they were crossing a river. That day the young man was right behind the teacher when they got to the deepest part. At that point the old man suddenly turned and grabbed the young fellow and pushed him under the water! He held him there for some time, and when finally he let the youngster up again, gasping and spluttering for air, the kid got his first lesson. “When you want enlightenment,” the Master said, “as badly as you wanted that breath of air, you shall have it.”

Hm. A hard lesson, surely. But I don’t know if there are any easy lessons, are there? There haven’t been for me, anyway. Living in a nursing home hardly qualifies as coasting to the finish line, I assure you. I must still have a few things to learn.

That puts me in mind of one more old story, if I’m not boring you yet. OK? It’s another bathtub story from old Mr. Wang, I think, but who knows anymore? It’s not in that new book, but it’s probably the story I’ve thought of most often over the years because it’s about a sweeper, just like me. It was my job, you know, at that old apartment house, to sweep the hallways every day. It prepared me for many jobs that I had after that, sweeping and mopping floors all over Chicago. It’s the kind of work that gives a person a lot of time to think.

It’s another story about a teacher and a student in a monastery. As I remember it, the young student’s job was to sweep the temple every day. Day in, day out, whether it needed it or not, and it’s hard work, you know, sweeping. Drudgery. So this kid is getting pretty sick of it, of course, and wants to be done with it, and he thinks he’s figured out an angle that might help. He goes to his teacher with it. “Master,” he says,” is it not true that the Buddha nature resides in all things, even the least speck of dust?”

“This is quite true,” replies the teacher. “You have learned well.”

“But then, Master,” says the young man, “why is it that I must sweep the temple every day? Is it not enough simply to contemplate the Buddha nature wherever it may be seen?”

The Master does not respond immediately, but only gazes with affection upon his young charge sitting quietly, awaiting his reply. When he finally speaks it is with a gentle voice. “It is true,” he says, “that the Buddha nature is intrinsic in all things in this world, yes, even in the least speck of dust. You have done well to learn this truth, and I commend you for contemplating it. However, I would like you to continue to sweep every day, and in fact to be more thorough than ever from now on. For what, after all, is our work here, if not to make such truth more apparent?”

Hm. What do you think, young man? I don’t know anymore. I just know I can’t sit here any longer, and you don’t get paid to listen to my stories all day. So help me out of this tub, will you, and back into my wheelchair. I’d like to go lay down, if you don’t mind.