Cast Iron

On my way to the dog park this morning, one of the neighbor women is tugging on an enormous bathtub in the back of a pickup truck, struggling to get it situated in the center of the truck bed. We say “Hi;” we always do when I walk by, though I don’t know her name. “Is that a bathtub?” I ask.

“Yep–we sold it to this guy in Seattle and he’s paying us to deliver it up there for him.” She laughs. “Only, he doesn’t know we were going up there anyway–it’s my sister’s 30th birthday. So we’re going to have a good time AND make some money!” She gives it another tug and it slides into place. “This thing is HEAVY–it’s cast iron.”

“Yeah, I was just about to say, you’ll have a great time if you don’t get a hernia loading it first!”

She says,  “Oh, we’re smart. We’ve got a ramp. We do it right. You don’t need all the muscles when you’ve got all the brains.” She grins and gives me a quick wave, then swaggers towards her garage.