Buckets, Baths & Butter: Country Living at Its Finest

We were downright thrilled the day Momma announced she’d bought a little piece of land out in the country. After years in the trailer park, this felt like an upgrade, freedom, fresh air, and no neighbors hollering through thin walls. Even better? We were taking the trailer with us.

I had never seen a trailer home moved before, so just watching ours wobble down the highway felt like a front-row seat to a miracle. It swayed so much it blocked both lanes, forming an unofficial funeral procession, except instead of solemn faces, we had barking dogs and, I swear, a cat perched on the roof. One minute it was there, the next, poof! Either it jumped or got snatched by a hawk. Hard to say. Nobody slowed down to ask.

We turned off onto a winding red dirt road surrounded by pine trees, limbs hanging low like they were trying to stop the madness. Every curve felt like a gamble. Whose idea was it to follow directly behind this swaying beast anyway? I was a bundle of nerves. And then came the grand finale, backing that trailer onto our new lot. Let’s just say... precision wasn’t the goal. Trees were taken out like bowling pins, and somehow the house landed sideways but propped up and tied down like a toddler in time-out.

The crew who hauled it? Rough around the edges, bless them. Not a tooth in sight, bellies spilling out of grease-stained overalls with no shirts underneath. Momma, ever the peacemaker, handed each one a six-pack of beer as a thank you. They were happier with that than any cash tip, which, to be fair, we didn’t have anyway. We were as broke as we’d ever been.

Now, about that septic tank. We didn’t have one. Momma said she was “saving her pennies,” which meant we were entering a new era of country plumbing. Enter the pickle bucket. Each of us had our own, complete with a rolled-up towel to soften the rim. You did your business, then took the bucket out to the woods to dump it. My little brother had it easier, he could stand. I, however, became a prime buffet for mosquitoes in the summer and a frozen popsicle in the winter. We dumped our DNA so often in the cow pasture down the road that I’m convinced those cows still talk about us.

There was no hot water heater, either. We heated water on the stove, tiny pots, not much bigger than Momma’s mixing bowls. It would take hours just to fill the bathtub a few inches high. And yes, we shared that bathwater. There were many arguments and battles over who got to go first.

Eventually, Momma had to lay down the law. She’d light a cigarette, look us all over, and say, “Alright now... who’s the least dirty? You go first.” That determined it. No vote. No rebuttal.

That water cooled off faster than you could say “pass the soap.” But in the summer? I didn’t care if it was cold. That metal box of a trailer turned into a literal oven in the Texas heat. I promise you, you could fry an egg on that tin roof, and probably toast bread on the hood of our car while you waited.

Once, in a stroke of genius (or madness), I soaked my pickle bucket towel in hot water so I’d have a warm seat when I went outside. Spoiler alert: the warmth didn’t last. That wet towel froze to my behind, and I waddled back inside howling. Never tried that again.

But not everything was hard. Old Farmer Brown, who lived down the road, would bring us fresh milk straight from his cows. The cream floated right to the top, and we’d have to shake the jug to mix it in. Sometimes Momma would sit in her chair, smoking and shaking that milk like it was a magic potion. If you shook it long enough, it turned into butter, soft, creamy, and so good we’d eat it by the spoonful when we didn’t have bread for toast.

We didn’t have much, but we had stories. And now that I look back, I realize we also had grit. Momma did what she could with what she had. She gave us land and a home, no matter how wobbly, bucketed, or butter-churned it was. And wrapped in all that hardship was a kind of love that sticks with you longer than any fancy address ever could!