Water

When our house (the McKennas’) on Niko Way was built in 1998, we had an artesian well installed.  Don't laugh, but we even used the services of a water diviner.  It was a little kooky watching him move slowly around the yard, intently watching his divining rod, but who am I to dismiss the method as bunk.  I don’t remember precisely how far down the well installers had to drill, but it was somewhere between 200 and 300 feet.  Now some of you may shrug at this claim, but nothing compares to well water; it is oh-so-delicious.  The Guatemalan mason who put in our stone patio ten years ago nodded approvingly, murmuring “agua de pozo” (well water), when I encouraged him to drink water right from the house spigot.  People in the know have a great appreciation for well water.  It goes without saying, however, that there’s a responsibility to test periodically for carcinogens, and we here on Niko Way are mindful of the trace quantities of arsenic that show up when we test our water.  The back of our property nestles against the former Boston & Maine railroad corridor, and railroad corridors have been notorious for emitting toxins into the ground.

As I look at the spot in our yard where the cap for our well sits, I’m reminded of my early introduction to artesian wells and the “sweet nectar” that they draw from the ground.  At our Titicut home, the well sat at the top of our driveway, to the right side, relatively close to the Library.  It had a little wood frame house, and we were instructed to stay clear of it.  Don’t open the door, don’t enter it, don’t touch the boards on the ground covering it, don’t throw things down it; in fact, just don’t go anywhere near it.  We, of course, took that as an invitation to do just that.  We removed the boards that covered the well, and peered straight down, hoping just once to be able to discern its depths.  We listened carefully, and then shouted into that space. Science was hard at work when you cast words or strings of words down that shaft.  You learned about the persistence of sound; the irregular rock siding assured a playful continuation of your notes.  “Helloooo” galloped joyfully down the cylindrical tract; on the other hand, “Chris is a stupid-head”, with its fricative sounds, fittingly ricocheted and smashed its way along the same path. A lot of stupid statements were dropped into that space. And I admit, I dropped rocks down there. They were little, so.

In the kitchen, next to the enormous double basin cast iron sink in one corner was an old cast iron "pitcher pump".  It operated as an offshoot of our artesian well; when primed with - you guessed it - water, the suction thus created allowed it to draw water from a cistern located behind the kitchen.  You pump-pump-pumped, and a rush of water then cascaded from its spout as if by magic.  Eventually, we were able to modernize our plumbing, and the pump, along with accompanying lead pipe, was removed.  It’s probable that the cistern itself still remains on the property, well hidden in the ground. Chris, perhaps as a hide-and-seek gambit, remembers lowering himself into its belly.  Which all brings to mind a common enough occurrence that I must ask: how many times did my older brothers (in a “joke’s on you” maneuver) simply vacate the premises in the middle of a hide-and-seek game?  Yuh, mm-hmm, I thought so.  To this day, there's a part of me that is still, reflexively, searching for them.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say that the hand pump was “popular” in that day and age, but you were more apt to see them outside on farms.  These days, they have great retro appeal, and can be bought cheaply on Amazon.com.  I doubt, however, that the typical purchaser reflects on how useful they are in a power outage.  Despite their continued functionality, they’re more for decorative purposes, adding the “perfect touch” to any fountain, pond, or garden display.  At the very least, their presence shouldn't cause some mother to contemplate:  I wonder if my otherwise sensible son is sitting in the cistern.