Chapter 16
The Well Runs Dry
“Mummy, there’s no water,” I said through a mouthful of foamy toothpaste. I had the cold-water faucet wide open, but not a drop was coming out.
I tried the hot water faucet again. Still no water. I spit out the toothpaste as best I could and wiped my lips on our communal bathroom towel, which smelled like our dirt-floored cellar.
“Uh-oh,” said Mummy. “Run downstairs and tell Uncle Joe.”
Downstairs, Uncle Joe had finished shaving and was drying his face with a towel.
“Uncle Joe, Mummy told me to tell you there’s no water upstairs. It just happened.”
“Yup. Same down here,” he replied. “I’d better check the well.”
After the Fourth of July, we rarely had running water on the farm until after Labor Day when the rains came. Water was our most precious commodity. The single hose on the farm—the one Uncle Joe used to wash his car in the spring—was put away in the garage. The well was over a hundred years old, a hand-dug, stacked-stone pit in the ground located just a few yards from Babci’s kitchen door, and it ran dry every summer without fail.
Years ago, someone built a square wooden well cap—like a legless tabletop—and painted it white to match the house. A heavy rock held the cover in place to ensure that no animals or children would fall into the well and to prevent contamination in case someone was tempted to
throw something unpleasant into it.
Uncle Joe rolled the rock end over end until it flopped on the dewy grass. No, it wasn’t as big as the rock that closed Jesus’s tomb, but it was close enough.
He lifted the well cap, set it carefully aside, and sent down a long pole to the bottom. Dicky and Sharon joined me, and we stood by, trying to sneak a peek down below. That cap only came off once a year. The rest of the time, we knew to never ever stand on it because it could break, and we’d fall in, and no one would hear us, and we’d definitely—no maybe about it— drown down there in the deep dark hole, and we’d be sorry. Yes, ma’am, we sure as heck would.
You didn’t need to tell me twice. I had no interest in entering the Great Beyond via a watery grave in our front yard. With each passing year, my unfounded fears grew louder. I ached under those fears and cried for what I couldn’t understand.
As expected, the pole came up dry. We stepped back while Uncle Joe returned the cap to its place, shifting and settling it to make sure it wasn’t going anywhere. Then, he maneuvered the rock back on top with a thump.
“Tell your mother we’ll need her to drive to the spring. I’ll get the milk cans,” Uncle Joe said.
A few minutes later, I was back in our upstairs kitchen.
“Uncle Joe is getting the milk cans. He said you need to drive to the spring,” I said.
“Okay,” Mummy replied, having already grabbed her purse.
The spring that Mummy needed to visit for water was two miles away near the Village Cemetery. Ice-cold spring water flowed year-round from a pipe in the hillside. We kids went along for the ride and got out to watch as she filled three stainless-steel milk cans. Then, we helped her wrestle the heavy cans back into the station wagon.