Cup of Memories

We never had a "drinking gourd," and I always felt deprived.

Instead, we had a common aluminum dipper (we all drank from the same dipper) beside the water bucket in the kitchen.

Germs aside, it offered a cool, refreshing drink, when the weather was cool, refreshing. During the summer, as I recall, we went directly to the source, the cistern just a few steps from the back porch, to fill the dipper.

The "drinking gourd," on the other hand, resided at a neighbor's house on a nearby hill. Judging from the frequency of our visits, they were probably distant relatives.

They had a well which, I thought, contained the coldest water around. And that gourd, that marvelous old weather-beaten gourd. I just had to have a drink from it, even when I wasn't thirsty. Oh, how I remember sipping slowly, dawdling, while enjoying both the cold water and the great shade of the tree near the well.

The poem:

CUP OF MEMORIES

The well water

was never colder

nor more sweet tasting

than when it was sipped

from an ordinary,

but memorably special

gray gourd dipper.

© 1995

(originally published in Capper's)

***

Today's word: dawdling

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thank you, Helen, for stopping by to take a sip of the poem ... the photo (a lucky shot, one of my favorites, too; wish I'd had a photo of a drinking gourd, but guess this one will do). I'm glad the combo pleased your palate.