This is another poem based on childhood memories of that place where I grew up with my grandparents.
We had no running water, no indoor plumbing ... not unusual for that time and place. Our water source for the house was a cistern, with a crank and chain which brought the stored rain water up. It was situated just outside the back porch.
Water for other purposes, watering the flowers, providing drinking water for the chickens, the cats, the dog, was carried from the well, some distance from the house.
This was not easy work. Like most young children, however, I wanted to try it. Grandpa was willing. In fact, he probably took a certain pleasure in my struggles with that heavy bucket ... the water was so heavy, too, and it really wouldn't sit still ... I can imagine he also relished the memories that my struggles stirred, of his own young efforts at the same thing.
I simply couldn't fathom how he could carry water without spilling some ... while I always spilled a lot.
Eventually I learned the value of experience.
And now, the poem:
CARRYING THE WATER
My grandfather could take
the swaying bucket
all the way,
uncertain as he was, from
well to house, and not
spill a drop.
The water sat, contented,
even though his hands
were trembling,
hisstep less steady than
mine, his eyes unsure
of the path.
But, hard as I might try,
I couldn't carry it
without loss.
Rising up against me, it
bounded over the top
of the pail,
splashing against my calf,
making dark splotches
on red soil
when I dared set it down,
like sins denied
but still mine.
©
2007(honorable mention in a Sinclair Community College contest; subsequently published in Capper's, and now part of my second collection of poems, Hollyhocks, Finishing Line Press, Georgetown, KY, 2007)
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Today's word:
contentedAfterthoughts ... in response to your comments:
Carrying water was a daily chore, Westofthere ... but I lived in another era. Do I miss it? Well, there are times ... quiet times when the mind goes wandering back to those sunlit hills ... that, yes, I do sorta miss it ... and it always comes to mind because water was so obviously important to us then. Now we just turn the tap ... and take it for granted. And I'll stop now, before I launch into a sermon.
Ah, that cold, clear water, Helen. What a gift it was! I'm glad this poem brought back some good memories for you ... of that Grandpa, who was so skilled at carrying the water without letting it dance over the sides of the bucket ... and of that portion of Illinois where, it appears, we are still rooted. Thank you for sharing.
2 comments:
The only time I've had to carry water was camping :)
Since the tsunami in 2004, I've consciously thought how fortunate we are for clean water coming out of the taps. To have clean water, period. No matter how convenient the taps might be, do you ever miss carrying the water?
To westofthere...our deliciously cold, clear water of my youth was from the well on our back porch. It was the best water anywhere. I wouldn't miss carrying it, but when I read this poem I thought of watching my grandpa carry water so far...to their house next door and I did like to watch him carry it--in amazement with his expertise manner, without spilling a drop. It's like this poem tells about the poet's grandfather...it is a wonderful picture in my own mind of Grandpa carrying it. I know, now, just what a chore it was and how heavy a bucket of water is. I do miss the wonderful, cold water, though...and I miss Grandpa. I live in Miami now, where it's convenient to get water, but never cold, and never as good as the water from our well...the well that was not too far from where the poet lived as a boy.
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