Cool Water, on Bare Feet

Last October, I notice an old pump, in a neighbor's backyard. The memories flowed from my memory well. Cool memories of water on the hot days of my youth on the farm. Hot years, no rain for months. Dust, and more dust, on and in and around everything.

But the well never went dry. The red pump, on a cool well that stood at the center of our lives in the dry years. The hard years. Years before water was sold in disposable plastic bottles that could make dust shine. Before vending machines, microwave ovens, and other means of instant gratification. I don't trust those little plastic bottles.

The well was true, the pump was dependable, and the water was always cool for those willing to take it's handle, and work it. I remember working that pump, and how I hated the burn in my arms as I worked the handle while my brother carried the water to the hogs. Hot, dusty hogs standing knee-deep in dust. And I remember the cool water that trickled across my bare feet while I pumped.

I left that farm as soon as I was able. I kept the pump in the back of my mind. And when I see an old pump, the memories flow cool like water from a deep well.

Cool water, on my bare feet. It don't get no cooler than that in a dust-bowl...