Relief came when our house was connected to water and sewage. Suddenly we were the proud owners of a bathtub with hot and cold running water and an indoor toilet. It was heaven for me – and, I think, for my mother and grandfather. My grandmother, however, was faced with the problem of what to do with her boudoir porcelain. “Leave it under the bed” Grandpa said. But that seemed like an ignominious end to such a distinguished antique (if indeed it was an antique).
Grandma could hardly bring it out into the parlor and display it in all its glory alongside her crystal vases. She solved the problem by making the grand gesture of presenting it to me as a wedding gift, probably in the hope that I would display it prominently in my new home in the city. My fiancè, raised in Toronto, was completely confounded by this object. I think he thought it was some sort of oversized, feminine beer mug.
The boudoir porcelain lay in a corner of our garage for years until the kids moved out and I retired. In preparation for my move back home I sold or sent to the thrift store almost everything I owned but I found I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of the boudoir porcelain. It came back with me to the old house that still smelled of furniture polish, apples and Mayor Watson’s cigars. Grandpa Watson. Horsie.
By this time the Watson house was the cornerstone of Ellersville’s heritage and we even had a Heritage Society to maintain it. Most of our family’s old furniture remained, and in summertime I dressed up in period costume and took tours through the house. We found some old coal oil lamps. A hand pump was replaced on an old sink brought in from where it had been dumped for more than fifty years. Nobody suggested replacing the outdoor privy.
I found that leading tours through the old house was a strange experience. Some of the furniture was placed exactly as it had been back then, although these days it wasn’t polished to the shine Grandma Watson had achieved. Other furniture was moved to show it off to better effect or to create a pathway for the tourists.
Somehow the need to show off grandma’s boudoir porcelain nagged at my conscience. She had been so proud of it. Now that it was seemly enough to display such items it seemed only proper to show it off as she would have wished. I kept trying to find the right spot for it. I placed it half under the big old bed. I tried it on the window ledge as an ornament, then front and centre in the china cabinet downstairs, but nowhere seemed quite right. It was too big to fit with the other china and it looked too coy peeking out from under the bed.
Occasionally people would ask what it was. I was stuck for an answer. I tried answering “It’s a chamber pot.” But then they would look puzzled and ask where the chamber was. I’d end up having to explain about the outdoor privy which quickly became too much information for most people.
I was still trying to place it to my satisfaction when our heritage society hired a new executive director – one of those young guys long on management buzzwords and short on historical knowledge. He came to look around on a day I had put the boudoir porcelain in the corner of the staircase landing, having run out of better ideas for placement.
“What the heck is that?” he asked.
Ignorant young puppy, I thought. But I twitched the skirt of my costume and answered “It’s Mrs Elizabeth Watson’s boudoir porcelain.”
He stared blankly at it for a minute and said “What is it doing on the stairs? It’s just a guzunder, right? My great grandma had one – she’d have been embarrassed for anyone else to see it.”
