I told my editor this week that I don’t like being a pioneer. I should have said I don’t like living like one. Monday morning started with me filling a sink with hot water so I could wash my face, but when I plunged my hands into the water, it was cold. That woke me right up!

It’s times like this that bring home the many ways in which our lives have changed, Although I love history, I don’t really want to relive it. I’m not a pioneer re-enactor, I’m afraid. Later for the bonnets and ruffles, and looking at a horse’s backside from a hard wagon seat.

So, having awakened to cold water, I set about to find out what was wrong. I pulled and tugged to open the cellar door, confronted a summer’s worth of cobwebs and what lives in them, and from the safety of the top step, looked at the water heater. Don’t ask what I expected to see. What I saw, was water on the floor. Quickly I called my niece, the plumber, who told me I needed a new heater. Or maybe it was just the release valve. But no, it was a heater I needed. My landlord (thank you, Tony) to the rescue, after several calls back and forth, and Monday afternoon I’d be – hopefully – in hot water again.

I could actually go without hot water from the faucet for a few days, but it means re-gearing my mindset. I’ve been through this chapter of semi-pioneering before. Easily I recall reading by the light of kerosene lamps, the picturesque outhouse in the back of the house near the woods, and shoveling coal into a furnace. And let’s not forget the refrigerator, then called an ice box because it was a wooden box with a big block of ice in it. But I was a kid then and didn’t know any better – this was normal life back then.

My growing up years were spoiled as my father finished our house with all of the things folks take for granted now – furnace, plenty of hot water out of faucets, nice kitchen stove, real refrigerator.

After, there was a long period of time in apartments in various cities, and I really got used to a thermostat and all the pleasure of having someone else being responsible for my comfort.

Then I got married, left the Lower East Village of New York City, and moved to Rosebud Indian Reservation (a culture shock in itself).

In South Dakota, I lived more than a few steps back in history. Chopping wood became the norm; filling pails with water and heating them on a wood burning stove to wash clothes – by hand. A scrub board became part of my life once again – diapers were a challenge. There was no place to get Pampers where I was living. Making do, and sometimes doing without, was the way of life.

About five years prior to this move, I’d had thoughts about joining the Peace Corps and moving to some primitive land – but life on the reservation cured me of that foolish notion. I craved creature comforts.

When my husband decided to move to Illinois, I couldn’t wait – a real house, bathtub – all the comforts I had taken for granted. Soon, they were mine! Along with 12-lane highways, laundromats, fast food drive-thrus and people who never spoke or smiled. It was a cold place, for sure.

For the past 30 years I haven’t once thought about joining the Peace Corps and the idea of tugging pails of water or even owning an ax with which to chop wood, never appeals to me now. Must be my age.

The charm of the good old days loses its appeal when the hot water faucet runs cold water.

See you next week.