I had the great privilege of living in the Henschel home in Edmonton. They had sold their land, making them instant millionaires, and built a beautiful home on the other side of the Calgary Trail. Until the developer did something, they had the right to rent whatever they could to whomever.
It was a beautiful home, situated 300 metres from the road. A white picket fence surrounded it as well as some trees. Inside was a huge kitchen, thick wall-to-wall carpeting in the living and dining rooms and a custom china cabinet. Upstairs were three moderately sized bedrooms. All of this cost only $125 a month to rent, plus the cost for electricity and gas to heat the home.
It was also the home that was the closest to the southeast corner of Edmonton, giving it the lowest possible street address at the time. Thus, I was Edmonton’s number one resident.
There was one slight catch. There was no plumbing. The way I figured it, Reinhard and Alice Henschel had lived without running water for decades. I should be able to do it. And I did.
Getting up every morning was a ritual. Downstairs was a reservoir that collected rainwater. I would scoop it into a big pot and put it on the gas stove to heat up. I would then take my cup of coffee into the living room and read. Sometimes I would just watch the sun rise.
When the water was hot, I would pour it into the washbasin in the sink. Rainwater is very soft. I would take a washcloth and lather the soap and pass it over my body, starting with my face and working my way down. Standing naked in my kitchen, I had to keep an eye out to see if somebody might suddenly visit. Being in the country, this didn’t happen very often.
For over two years I had hardly any showers or baths, yet the rainwater gave me the cleanest of bodies and the softest hair.
Drinking water was taken from the well. Fortunately the pump had an electric motor. In the coldest winter days, I had to pour a bit of hot water down the pump to melt any ice that might cause the rod to snap. The mineral content of this water seemed perfect. On the hottest days, this cold liquid could slake any thirst.
The only problem with some who visited my home was the outhouse. It was a two-seater and I kept it spotless. A product called Mistovan kept it smelling nice or, should I say, kept it from smelling dreadful. Still some guests refused to use it. I remember spending hours preparing a meal for Tom and his family. They ate, and then promptly left. Somebody had to go to the toilet and was squeamish. I was not impressed.
It was a bit inconvenient trundling out there, especially the last thing at night and first thing in the morning. Winter was not so pleasant.
There was one advantage of potty trips in the winter, though. I never had to worry about constipation. On the really cold days, your butt would hit the toilet seat. The instant reaction was the tightening of all of your abdominal muscles and anything that was in your bowel would be exit like shot out of a cannon.
One year I had a huge problem. You know how exposure to the cold can give you chapped lips. Well, I had another area that had deep cracks in the skin. It was very painful.
I look back at that time with very mixed feelings. The rolling pastures that surrounded me when I lived in that house calmed the turmoil in my life at that time. I strolled out on many evenings watching the sun descend and the stars appear. The only sound I heard was the wind. I was able to find refuge from the world surrounded by three hundred acres – a buffer zone from the rest of the world. At times I long to go back to that land. The only problem is that, like most things these days, time changes everything. The land has been developed and from what I see on Google Earth, the house is no longer there. However, it is still strongly etched in my memory.
