Hot Water ! Hot Water! Wayne Mullett is the author of several short stories about a child’s imagination growing up in outport Newfoundland in the 1950’s. He is presently composing a book of children’s stories for adults, which will be titled, "The View Through My Hand." He notes in the prologue for his book: "Our best memories are often the ones we have with the people we like the most. Our best stories however come from how we see through things and imagine the answers necessary to explain what has not yet been destroyed by reason and logic." I hope that both you, the child, and you, the adult with some child still left within you, can free your imaginations long enough to enjoy this following story from "The View Through My Hand" and that as you read these stories they will bring to you your own unspoiled imaginations of innocence. Dedicated to the people of Wesleyville, Bonavista Bay. HOT WATER! HOT WATER! It wasn’t really so much about water as it was about hot. I mean “really hot,” like in being scalded to death if you did not move out of the way of that loud voice coming towards you and screaming out HOT WATER ! HOT WATER ! The first time I ever heard this warning I was in a line-up with my father on the stairs to the second floor of our community town hall. We were waiting there on the stairs to get into the dining hall to have our bowl of Ladies Aid Soup. The United Church Ladies Aid members held a few fundraising suppers throughout the year and often the menu consisted of a beef and vegetable soup, which I so aptly labelled as Ladies Aid Soup and it has kept its name to this very day. In those days our community’s homes did not have electricity or running water. When hot water was needed it was boiled in big pots on the kitchen wood stove and then transported to a sink for dish washing or to the washing machine to do the laundry. Needless to say many nasty accidents and scalded children fell victim to this rather unsafe yet rational water heating and delivery process. Hence when anything hot was being transported near or through where people were congregated the deliverer was to shout out a warning of; HOT WATER ! HOT WATER! All this all makes perfect sense so far. Right? Like so much of the confusion we create in language, you can just imagine what the warning call meant to a small 5-year old boy. Of course he would imagine it was a pot of hot water coming up the stairs to that dining hall. After all, the soup bowls and other dishes had to be washed by the Ladies Aid before the next seating for soup commenced for those of us waiting on the stairs. As the big man with the big voice and the big pot passed by my father and I, we pinned ourselves against the railing on the stairs, to avoid being scalded. As he passed by I thought that the hot water pot had a rather soupy smell to it. Not wanting to be left in a permanent state of confusion between the words of warning and the smell, I had to ask, “WHY”? This word “why” was not easy on my parents and others in my life at that time, however it was very well suited to my ever-persistent need to understand the world that was rapidly evolving around me. I remember my poor father’s look of “here we go again” as we huddled on the stairs with about 50 other men and their children. He was given no choice, no putting it off until later, no minimizing the seriousness of providing the correct answer. He was to do no such thing but explain to his 5 year old son “why” this pot of hot water smelled like Ladies Aid Soup. All ears and eyes were upon him. After all he was the High School’s Principal. Many of these men he had likely taught in school and who knew of his antics and ways of engaging students in learning new things. They knew he was in a very difficult spot but as the line was moving quite slowly they graciously gave him lots of silent time to formulate an answer that would be sufficient in logic to avoid another, “WHY?” I waited. He thought. They waited too. The warning call, “HOT WATER”, was going to be explained for the very first time for all to hear. I felt quite proud of myself to have initiated so much interest from such a large crowd. “Come on Max tell him why”, I heard some men say. “Well it’s like this”, he said. He told me about boiling water on the stove to take to some other place in the house and that when transporting it people were calling out HOT WATER to give warning to others of the impending danger. This explanation seemed totally clear to me already, as I was quite aware that really hot water could hurt you if it was spilled on you. But surely this was not the full answer. Like the men, I waited some more for him to regain his composure in front of the crowd and go on with a more detailed answer. He then told me that water was boiled in big pots in the kitchen on the ground floor of the town hall and then transported upstairs to the dining hall. Therefore the HOT WATER warning call was sent ahead of its arrival. All could see I was more than disappointed with his answer so far. We waited some more. The line moved. A wave of relief swept over his face. Then the line stopped again and that worried look returned. He knew he was in a real pickle on this one. There was no simple way out. Cigarettes were lit, smoke rings were formed and then hurled along on smelly breaths into the lamp lighted voids of space that remained in the stairwell. The visual distraction was almost overbearing to my need in solving yet another truth. Quiet chuckles came from along the stairs. As community, we were all in this together. Searching to be found; yearning for life’s real truths. This was certainly not shaping up in my mind as sufficient in explaining why the hot water smelled like Ladies Aid Soup. He knew this too and he also knew that time was not on his side. For various reasons we would all be waiting there for some time to come, before the line would move again. There were mothers serving real soup up in the dining hall and we all knew if you were lucky enough to have you very own mother serve you when you sat down then you would likely get a second bowl of soup directed your way. My urge to eat had to be suppressed, as I remained focused in my search of this “hot water” truth. There was really only one answer to my question, but it would have to come at the loss of our space in the line on the stairs and we would then have to start all over again. We both knew this. Maybe if this happened I would not get a second bowl. Worse still the Ladies Aid would run out of soup altogether. There were no options left but to take me to the kitchen on the ground floor, with the big boiling pots and room full of steam so I could see for myself which ones had hot water and which ones had soup. This would provide me with advanced knowledge before the next pot with its mysterious contents passed us by on the stairs the next time around. He also knew if I was taken there I would unleash a thousand “whys”. He knew this would not be rewarding for him. I also knew my mother would be upstairs waiting to see us come through the door and she would quickly wave us over to a couple of chairs that she had discretely set aside at “her” table. He and I both knew the stakes were high and for quite obviously different reasons. I was a bit stubborn as a child and this was not likely to play out favourably for me either, if I kept this up. I wept for a better answer but I was not so convinced I really needed it before having my two bowls of soup. Suddenly I heard that warning call coming from a distance again….HOT WATER! HOT WATER ! A big man, with a big voice, with a big pot came onto the stairs and started to pick his way up through the line. HOT WATER, HOT WATER he shouted. As he approached us I could see it was my grandfather this time who carried the pot. He saw the tears in the eyes of his very determined grandson and the angst on my father’s face. He knew what was up. He did not have to be told. Before my father could ask, he put down the pot, removed the lid and let me look inside. To my surprise it was nothing more than a big pot of hot water. No soup and no smell. He quickly put the lid back on, picked up the pot and moved on up the stairs and into the dining room. A few minutes later the line suddenly surged forward and we were picked up and deposited on the dining hall floor. My eyes searched and my mother was not at her table. Oh no I thought, she has gone home and I will only get one bowl. Then I saw her waiting right inside the doorway to the hall, as if she knew we were arriving with that wave of men and children. Someone must have told her I was going to be a very hungry boy when I arrived. My two bowls of Ladies Aid Soup along with several slices of warm homemade bread was topped off by two pieces of lemon meringue pie and washed down with many good glasses of our special tasting water from the peat marshes. The entire journey from the first tread on the stairs to the last drop of water was wonderful! I slept soundly that night after pondering the day’s events, while watching from my bedroom window the blinking lighthouse out on the island. I had successfully convinced myself that the first pot going up the stairs probably smelled like it was soup because I was very hungry and craving to reconnect with the best soup ever, made by moms. Two great men and many great mothers had shaped for me another spectacular day of learning. Wayne Mullett   Submitted By: Wayne Mullett