Love to Kick My Feet Way Down the Shallow Water

 None of us thinks there is anything remarkable about their lives, do we? 

This all came to mind recalling a story to a friend last week. 

I grew up on well water. I remember the well house out in the front yard by the flower garden Nanny always kept English garden-style, all a little wild and overgrown. I thought all gardens were that way and I've found them to be my favorite my whole life. It was made of two 8-foot by 4-foot slabs of plywood turned long-wise to the ground, probably 1/2-inch, then another cut in half for each end. It was roofed in shingles like a tiny little house. The end close to the house had a sort of door that swung down on hinges from the halfway point, with a little hasp to keep it closed when it was lifted up. It was always painted any time the house got a coat. A color I don't know the name of, a shade of slate blue leaning gray.

The way Nanny tells it,  anything wrong with that house is because the architect thereof was drunk at the time of work from the electric to the counters built at a rather unconventional  height, apparently measured by a man who ranged tall and just decided "about there is right." I grew up spoiled in my own height my tall counters and raised sink and I still will complain bitterly about having to bend to wash dishes. I don't know how much truth is in that story about the drunkenness, but I don't know how much truth isn't in it, either.

So, apparently the well wasn't dug deep enough in the beginning. I wonder in adulthood, if they should have either moved it off the hill or dug deep enough to compensate for the grade. There's no way of telling if they knew at construction that it wasn't deep enough.

Nanny told us all was well until they "blasted out on the mountain" and damned if I know what that means to this day. That's Lookout Mountain proper to those of y'all who did not grow up in its slightly distant looming presence cupped around you like a curved hand. I'm not sure if there's a quarry, or they built a tunnel for a road, or a man-made watering hole or what. But afterwards, the water always smelled of sulphury. But not precisely like that. It had a vaguely natural gas scent. On researching, that's apparently normal for well water. Except when there are bacteria involved. The smell wouldn't linger on your skin or clothes if you washed in it, but drinking it was sure unpleasant.

Every July, like clockwork, the well would run dry. You'd know by the rusty-colored, gurgling water that would start to come from the taps. That would stain your clothes. And then suddenly, the tap would sputter and stop. We always prepared by having jugs of water for the toilet and for drinking, but since it was July, there would be no bathing water. Our solution was creative, if not elegant.

We'd all be herded up and driven down to "the creek." It has no name that I know, barely a few inches deep except for where an oak tree made a mossy flat and leaned out over a bend as if pointing to the deeper water. When I say "deeper" that means it was maybe 30-inches. 

Being a mountain-fed creek, it was cold. And I do not mean just cold. I mean turn-your-lips-blue cold. I mean turn-your-hands-and-feet-white. I mean joint-aching cold. You'd come out of a splash in that water as pale as a fish belly, teeth chattering, covered in chills. And you'd stay cool all evening. Which was great in that weather.

It looked so dark from the surface. It was really as clear as clear could be. Not much plant life lives anywhere that cold. The reason it looked black was the rocks under the surface. They were mostly very dark, interspersed with the occasional sandstone. Smooth rocks, worn round by ages. The sandstone ones like the skin on a sturgeon, or sandpaper past its use.

There was nothing of glamour here. It was dark and shaded, never saw much of sunlight except what dapple could fall between the thick canopy. If my writing leads anyone to believe otherwise, it's out of love. Love makes me romanticize the most ordinary of things. Like empty tidepools and cigarettes.

I learned to swim in that creek, belly-first like an alligator until I was brave enough to venture into the deeper water. I learned to skip rocks over that pool. I know the rock where my mother preferred to sit on the bank; vaguely Texas-shaped and flat and low. I know where to catch crawdads and where you'll see periwinkles clinging to smooth stones. If you ventured back away from the road far enough, there were more pools of water breaking up the flow. We weren't allowed to do that until we were old enough to be trusted not to drown or bash our brains out on a rock.

The bank was sandy, a rusty sand color. More orange than beach sand and coarser, but still soft on the feet. I don't remember ever wearing shoes in transit or having to take them off when we got there. The bank sloped into the water, sand giving way to stones. Most about the size of grapefruit, but certainly flatter. Some much larger, some smaller. Some just the right sort for skipping.

Just past the pool, shading the water, was a rickety bridge. It was paved and it had "rails" could they be called that. There was nothing to keep you from driving your car right into the water, frankly. They were probably close to the correct height, but the rail was only connected by three or four vertical steel rods about two-inches wide and no more than a quarter-inch thick. They had been smacked into a time or two because the silver was all dented and rusted. Underneath, I clearly recall clothes jammed up in the underside. I never ventured close enough to inspect those though. Even in childhood, that bridge was ominous.

When the well would run dry, we'd all pack our shampoo and soap and go bathe in that creek. Soap doesn't really lather in that kind of cold. Or maybe the water was just that hard. Either way, you never really felt clean. But it's what we had. It's funny how that cold water was a privilege when we were roasting alive, but a punishment when we were dirty.

I realized after telling about that and garnering a surprised look followed by something like "that's badass" that maybe the story was worth telling. I think we should all do more of that.

They finally brought county water out there about five years ago, at the cost of $3,000 a family. And then we had to run our own lines from the road. They tore down the well house, nothing but a flat spot and clear view down the hill to the place the driveway curves. Nothing of use left. A funny thing to be nostalgic over, I guess. Funny how we get about nostalgic things of no further use to us. We just cannot let them go.