It began yesterday morning, when I was awakened in the dark, soggy dawn by a curious and unsettling sound. In my half-sleep, I thought maybe Mom was watching a movie featuring sporadic gunfire, but as I woke further I knew this was not the case. Still, I laid there and listened, hoping it wasn't the noise I already knew it was. I got out of bed and went into the hall, where I heard more clearly, and beyond any mistaking - it was the well-pump blowing blasts of air into the empty cistern.
The motor would hum, and then another sharp, awful cough of air would resonate in the concrete-block tank. I shut off the switches for both the well-pump and pressure tank pump, and looked out the window at the fog-draped hills and trees beaded with raindrops. How could the well be empty? Maybe it only needed a few minutes to recover. I waited, then turned on the pump, and heard only the coughing again.
I heard Dad running water as he went through his morning routine, so I told him what was going on, and to be prudent with the water. I then sat on my bed and wondered what to do next. Since swearing and grumbling were going to be no help, so I pulled on some clothes and a jacket, and went into the back yard, where water still drizzled off the roof into a row of buckets. I dipped some into an empty bucket and took into the house to use for flushing, and then, after feeding the birds that were evidently starving, if their histrionics were to be believed, I used some of the precious water in the pipes to wash my hands and make a cup of tea.
The well had run dry for a day, just at the end of September, after a hot and terribly dry summer. We'd had a rainy spell in early June, and a few occasional thundershowers here and there throughout the summer, but by this time the ground was parched, and rivers had more dry leaves than water in them. The well ran dry only hours before a storm was due to drop between 4 and 6 inches of water on us, and so our water deprivation was short lived. October has been quite wet, with several storms, and cool weather to keep everything from drying out again. So I seriously doubted that the well was in trouble. We'd had rain the night before - buckets of it, and the little brook was running in the hollow, so I knew the ground was saturated.
Later in the morning, after coffee and tea and breakfast, Dad opened the well and found, to our infinite relief, that it is completely full, almost to ground level. This well is over 150 years old, hand-dug on a spot determined by a dowser. It's about 4 feet across and 15 feet deep, walled with fieldstones. It produces the best water in the world - soft and sweet, not a trace of the mineral or metallic precipitates that make other local waters taste "off" and make crusty stains on pots and sinks. It's a little silty, perhaps, but is the best. What a good feeling it was to see that well brimming with our good water - even it it wasn't getting into the house.
The pump was the cause; it had lost its prime. Dad fiddled with it but decided he didn't have the tools to deal with it, so went in and called a plumber, who said he'd be here in about 90 minutes. Much cheered, we went about other chores, expecting to hear the splash of water in the cistern before long.
But the afternoon wore on...and no plumber. The appointed hour passed; the sun sank behind the trees to the southwest...no plumber. There was no water in the pipes; the only clean water we had was in a 3-quart jug I'd filled on Sunday to take to work (Manchester water being mineral-heavy and unpalatable). We eked it out; most went to boil a pot of potatoes for supper, and I used a splash to brush my teeth but didn't wash my face before bed. What I really wanted and needed was a bath, but unless I wanted to go down in the brook like a bird, or filter and boil a few gallons, I was stuck.
This morning there was just enough clean water left for Dad's coffee and 2 cups of tea. Dad called the plumber again, and reached an answering machine. Not knowing how long we might be without running water, I took two milk jugs to the brook and filled them. It had rained hard much of the night, and the brook was running high, so it was no problem to collect 2 gallons of the clear, cold water. I poured a gallon through a colander lined with a paper towel, filtering out bits of leaves and pine needles, before boiling it. This is the water that I used to make the cup of tea I am drinking now.
The plumber called a while ago, said he'd be here in an hour. It remains to be seen if his "hour" today will be as long as his "hour and a half" yesterday. It's nearly 10am now; I HAVE to bathe before I go to work, and I have to leave here no later than 11.30. I guess I'll have to go get another jug from the brook and boil it, and have a splash in the sink.
I cannot be too annoyed, though, or consider this a great inconvenience. At this moment in Haiti, thousands of people are suffering with cholera, that terrible and violent water-borne disease. Having a sip of water there is like Russian roulette, with most of the chambers loaded. But here, water probably clean enough to drink untreated is gushing down out of the woods. How lucky I am to live here!
