The Mystery of Water -- What Spiritual Force Attracted Me To the Old Well?
Posted: Thursday, April 10, 2008
by Marty RicKard
No running water in our old farm home---we had walking water instead. At fourteen, I carried it from the well---150 steps east, 100 south. It was a hard trip with two sloshing buckets, five gallons, forty pounds, much harder through the drifts in a blizzard's teeth.
Now, fifty years later, I had returned to the farmstead. The trees had grown, the view was different, but the well was still there. The pump handle was extended toward me like the hand of an old friend. I walked toward it as if drawn by a spiritually magnetic force. I wrapped my hand around the pump handle. And I pondered anew this tomb where water awaited resurrection.
"It's a deep well," a neighbor had told us years ago when we first moved in.
How deep? China ? What was the source? Rain? An underground river? Is water the spark-of-life, knowledge, trust, the earth's blood?
Water---H2O. Tasteless, odorless, colorless, the dictionary claims. Tasteless? Odorless? This well water was indeed colorless. One out of three isn't bad.
How did I get elected Water Bearer? "Because you're a boy," my father had said. His transparent logic dazzled me, but gave no comfort.
Mother and father could drink my water, but the sister flock was another matter. Sisters should carry their own water. What I carried into the house was my water. Yes, let them carry their own. But does anyone own water?
At times I hated water (the river had claimed my friend). But mostly I was ambivalent. In the heat of thirst, I loved water. Water is like religion---honored only when we need it. We ignore religion until we are extremely sick; then we pray like monks until we are well. Then once again we only sip at our religion. It's a lot like water. Maybe water is religion.
Usually the pump had to be primed. Ironically, it took water to get water---like money---like knowledge---like love.
There was mystery about this well that I never understood. Its depth, darkness, the fear of entrapment (Kathy Fiscus, age three, trapped a hundred feet down in California. The world held its breath and prayed for fifty two hours in 1949, before they recovered her body).
And now, fifty years after I had first grasped that cold, iron handle, the pump still stood tall against a changed green landscape, in the shade of an oak grown huge. Defiant, scabbed by rust, it welcomed me, and I communed with this old friend.
I recalled from my youth the many stories of this place: Limpy, the duck; the old farmer who hand-milked his cows until the end, the hidden clouds and milky legs, and, of course, Clementine, our pet pig.
But the mystery of the well lingered, like the magic in all water---whether it be an ocean or a dewdrop.
As I turned to leave, my eyes were drawn to the parsonage window. The old house had weathered, but there still existed at that time a faint streak below the window that was lighter than all the rest---eloquent proof of my sins from the parsonage window.
Read "Clementine" and "It's Not Always Easy To Hide Your Sins" for a fuller understanding of this story of my youth.
Marty RicKard Bio
Marty RicKard attended William Penn College , Iowa State University and University of Southern Mississippi , from which he holds a BS degree in journalism and photojournalism. He also has a Masters Degree in photography, in addition to the Craftsman, CPP, and A-ASP degrees. Marty spent two years as a technical writer for White Motor Company, and has worked for the Charles City Press, Mason City Globe-Gazette, and Davenport Times-Democrat. He was co-owner of the weekly New Sharon Star, where he was twice named Iowa Master Columnist for his article, which was syndicated in twenty Iowa newspapers. For more than a decade Marty's regular column appeared in the Professional Photographer magazine. He has been published in many other magazines and newspapers, including Writer's Digest, Writer Advice, Golf Digest, Resource Magazine, Picture, Range Finder, and Darkroom. In addition to his writing credits, Marty has won numerous photography awards, has lectured in 48 states, and has traveled internationally as lecturer, and judge. He was one of thirty from the U.S. to participate in the first cultural exchange with China in 1986. He currently is a regular columnist for Lens Magazine, and a full-time writer of fiction and poetry. He is the author of two poetry books and one volume of short stories. He is an entertaining speaker.
Now, fifty years later, I had returned to the farmstead. The trees had grown, the view was different, but the well was still there. The pump handle was extended toward me like the hand of an old friend. I walked toward it as if drawn by a spiritually magnetic force. I wrapped my hand around the pump handle. And I pondered anew this tomb where water awaited resurrection.
How deep? China ? What was the source? Rain? An underground river? Is water the spark-of-life, knowledge, trust, the earth's blood?
Water---H2O. Tasteless, odorless, colorless, the dictionary claims. Tasteless? Odorless? This well water was indeed colorless. One out of three isn't bad.
How did I get elected Water Bearer? "Because you're a boy," my father had said. His transparent logic dazzled me, but gave no comfort.
Mother and father could drink my water, but the sister flock was another matter. Sisters should carry their own water. What I carried into the house was my water. Yes, let them carry their own. But does anyone own water?
At times I hated water (the river had claimed my friend). But mostly I was ambivalent. In the heat of thirst, I loved water. Water is like religion---honored only when we need it. We ignore religion until we are extremely sick; then we pray like monks until we are well. Then once again we only sip at our religion. It's a lot like water. Maybe water is religion.
Usually the pump had to be primed. Ironically, it took water to get water---like money---like knowledge---like love.
There was mystery about this well that I never understood. Its depth, darkness, the fear of entrapment (Kathy Fiscus, age three, trapped a hundred feet down in California. The world held its breath and prayed for fifty two hours in 1949, before they recovered her body).
And now, fifty years after I had first grasped that cold, iron handle, the pump still stood tall against a changed green landscape, in the shade of an oak grown huge. Defiant, scabbed by rust, it welcomed me, and I communed with this old friend.
I recalled from my youth the many stories of this place: Limpy, the duck; the old farmer who hand-milked his cows until the end, the hidden clouds and milky legs, and, of course, Clementine, our pet pig.
But the mystery of the well lingered, like the magic in all water---whether it be an ocean or a dewdrop.
As I turned to leave, my eyes were drawn to the parsonage window. The old house had weathered, but there still existed at that time a faint streak below the window that was lighter than all the rest---eloquent proof of my sins from the parsonage window.
Read "Clementine" and "It's Not Always Easy To Hide Your Sins" for a fuller understanding of this story of my youth.
Marty RicKard Bio
Marty RicKard attended William Penn College , Iowa State University and University of Southern Mississippi , from which he holds a BS degree in journalism and photojournalism. He also has a Masters Degree in photography, in addition to the Craftsman, CPP, and A-ASP degrees. Marty spent two years as a technical writer for White Motor Company, and has worked for the Charles City Press, Mason City Globe-Gazette, and Davenport Times-Democrat. He was co-owner of the weekly New Sharon Star, where he was twice named Iowa Master Columnist for his article, which was syndicated in twenty Iowa newspapers. For more than a decade Marty's regular column appeared in the Professional Photographer magazine. He has been published in many other magazines and newspapers, including Writer's Digest, Writer Advice, Golf Digest, Resource Magazine, Picture, Range Finder, and Darkroom. In addition to his writing credits, Marty has won numerous photography awards, has lectured in 48 states, and has traveled internationally as lecturer, and judge. He was one of thirty from the U.S. to participate in the first cultural exchange with China in 1986. He currently is a regular columnist for Lens Magazine, and a full-time writer of fiction and poetry. He is the author of two poetry books and one volume of short stories. He is an entertaining speaker.
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Top-level comments on this article: (7 total)I enjoyed reading this article Marty.Dear David: Thank you for your comment. It is extra special coming from you. Best Marty RicKard
Hi Marty! What a lovely article. You took me back with you. God Bless your sweet soul. TeresaDear Teresa: What a nice comment. You have made my day. Best, Marty RicKard
hi marty, cool. those gliding words again. "in a blizzard's teeth. " so descriptive. it was interesting reading about water, and the descriptions of it. and what it means to different people. thanks for a well written, nice article. best regards, sue thomSue: I screwed up and put my response to you in the comment slot. Sorry. Marty RicKard
Dear Sue: Thank you so much. We really can't own water, we only borrow it for a short time. But you can't live without it. Is water life? It bears thought. Best to you, my pal. Marty RicKard
Hi Marty. A very good article. I enjoyed it very much. Bob Alexander
Wonderful article, Marty, and a big 'Amen'. I have a few old wells in my memories, too. Sometimes even religion needs priming. Thanks for sharing this with us. You are a wonderful writer. God bless. SEG
What a nice metaphoric reflection of life.Very enjoyable to read, Marty. After I read this piece, I began reading your bio and caught myself saying... YEP!Hey, Robin, sounds as if I have a soul mate sneaking around in the slums of literature. Glad you enjoyed it. 100% true. Bless you, Marty RicKard
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