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Water has been the subject of the entire day. From ten in the morning, until damned near 8PM, Slick Willie and I had pulled, measured, dug and dug again, replaced, primed, rewired and sweated like ho's in church... on a trail into the bowels (almost literally) of my mother's anemic water supply. While there's nothing remotely poetic about it, it is still a stark lesson on how vital water is... and is so easily taken for granted. My grandmother, when she lived her life here, was paranoid to the extreme about the well. As if the taps poured gold. She used to catch the rain from the gutters in a 55 gallon drum, and used it for everything that didn't go in your mouth. And had a strong back as a result, most of her years. I see the point, though maybe not the drama... and learned. To conserve. To the point where, in the evening, while bleeding a line outside, it was like watching blood being spilled onto the ground. So the clothes get washed only once a week. The Volvo gets dusty. The garden is rescued only when the leaves wilt. Ladysmith Black Mambazo performed a lovely acapella hymn: "Oh, Come... (never come) Oh, Come... (never come) Come To Me, Beautiful Rain." Word. The pluses? Learning how the supply system works... and how to fix it when it breaks. Oozing the poison of inactivity out of my pores in torrents. Functioning on two pieces of bacon and a piece of toast, and about six beers. That last part, the reason for the aspirin I just swallowed. I hear many comments on the drinking habits of Russia... if you took beer away from plumbers (or anyone who performs physical tasks in the heat of summer), nothing would ever get done. Though it's preferable to down a few when the front porch and stereo becons. Miss Jane received notice from her daughter that they'd be leaving early Sunday for the shore. Good to find out, finally. And so will begin a week on my own. I need waves, myself. To see water in such abundance. From whence we come, to which we return. |
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