Drawing water from memory and faith

The first thing I remem­ber is the sound. Not the sight of the well or the taste of the water. 

The sound. 

The old pul­ley would groan as my Great Gran wrapped both hands around the worn wood­en han­dle and began low­er­ing the buck­et into the dark­ness below. The rope creaked with every inch it gave, and then there it was — that hol­low splash echo­ing up from some­where deep beneath the earth. 

I loved that sound. 

I’d lean over the stone wall, care­ful not to get too close, try­ing to catch a glimpse of the buck­et before it dis­ap­peared into the dark­ness. My Great Gran would reach over with one weath­ered hand, catch the back of my dress, and gen­tly pull me toward her. 

“Don’t you get too close now,” she’d say. 

Then she’d smile, because she knew I’d lean right back over the edge as soon as she turned her atten­tion to the rope. 

That old well still sits in the front yard of her house in the hills of east­ern Kentucky. 

The stones are old­er now. 
The wood has weath­ered. 
Time has left its mark on both. 
So have I. 

When I stand beside it today, I no longer see an old well. I see my Great Gran. 

I see her apron flut­ter­ing in the sum­mer breeze. I see strands of gray hair escap­ing the bob­by pins she’d tucked under her head scarf that morn­ing. I see the lines in her hands as she pulled the rope, not with strain but with the kind of strength that comes from doing the same work every day for decades. 

Back then, I nev­er ques­tioned where our water came from. It came from the well. That’s just how things were. 

On hot sum­mer after­noons, she’d dip that old met­al ladle into the buck­et and hand it to me first. I’d wrap both hands around it because it was almost too cold to hold. We’d stand there togeth­er beneath the shade of the wal­nut tree, drink­ing water so sweet and cold that I hon­est­ly believed noth­ing else on earth could ever taste that good. 

I’ve trav­eled since then. 

I’ve drunk bot­tled spring water from places peo­ple pay good mon­ey to vis­it. I’ve tast­ed moun­tain water in Tennessee and clear streams in North Carolina. None of it has ever tast­ed like the water from my Great Gran’s well. 

Maybe it was­n’t the water. Maybe it was who I was drink­ing it with. 

There was anoth­er well behind my Pap’s house. That one belonged to a dif­fer­ent rhythm. 

During hay sea­son, every evening after the work was done, Pap would draw up a glass jug of water and slide it into the freez­er before head­ing to bed. The next morn­ing began long before the sun climbed over the ridges. The house would already be awake. 

I can still hear the screen door slap­ping shut behind Pap as he head­ed to the barn to feed the ani­mals before our day began. I can smell bacon grease lin­ger­ing from break­fast and bis­cuits cool­ing beneath a tow­el on the table. 

My step-grand­moth­er packed our din­ner buck­et while Pap checked the trac­tor. Then he’d lift me onto the fend­er beside him. I thought that was the finest seat in the world. 

My legs were too short to reach any­thing but the warm met­al beneath me, and I rode with the con­fi­dence only chil­dren have, believ­ing Pap could fix any­thing, dri­ve any­where, and some­how keep me safe all at once. 

The fields looked dif­fer­ent that ear­ly. Mist still clung to the bot­toms. Spiderwebs shim­mered like lace. Everything smelled of dew and fresh-cut hay. 

By noon the Kentucky sun had burned away every trace of morn­ing. Heat set­tled over the fields until the air itself seemed to hum. 

We’d park beneath what­ev­er patch of shade we could find. 

My step-grandmother’s din­ner buck­et always held some­thing simple. 

A bis­cuit. 
A sand­wich. 
Maybe a slice of pie if we were lucky. 

Then Pap would reach behind the trac­tor seat for that frozen jug. Little pieces of ice still float­ed on top, bump­ing soft­ly against the glass. We’d take long drinks before pass­ing it back and forth. The water was so cold it almost hurt. 

It cooled you from the inside out. 

Looking back, I real­ize some of my sweet­est child­hood mem­o­ries hap­pened around wells. Not because any­thing remark­able took place there. 

No mir­a­cles. 
No visions. 
No voic­es from heaven. 

Just ordi­nary peo­ple liv­ing ordi­nary lives. 

Drawing water. 
Packing lunch­es. 
Putting up hay. 
Talking about the weath­er. 
Praying before supper. 

Children chas­ing light­ning bugs until some­body called them home. 

Funny how mem­o­ry works. When you’re a child, you think the impor­tant moments are the big ones. 

Christmas morn­ing. 
Birthdays. 
The coun­ty fair. 

You don’t real­ize you’re mak­ing mem­o­ries while stand­ing beside a well. You don’t know that one day the sound of an old pul­ley will car­ry you far­ther back in time than any pho­to­graph ever could. 

I’ve often won­dered how many morn­ings my Great Gran walked out to that well before I was born. 

Thousands, I imag­ine. Maybe tens of thousands. 

Did she pray while she wait­ed for the buck­et to fill?  Did she stand qui­et­ly lis­ten­ing to the birds before the day began? Did she watch the fog lift from the holler and thank God for anoth­er morning? 

I wish I’d asked. 

Children assume grand­par­ents have always been old. We nev­er think to won­der what they thought about when no one else was around. For my Great Gran, draw­ing water was­n’t some­thing spe­cial. It was sim­ply part of the day. 

Like feed­ing the chick­ens. 
Hanging clothes on the line. 
Shelling beans on the porch. 
Reading her Bible before the house stirred awake. 

She would nev­er have called those things sacred. They were sim­ply what need­ed doing. 

I’ve come to believe that may be the truest kind of holi­ness. Not the kind that announces itself with trum­pets. The kind that slips qui­et­ly into ordi­nary morn­ings and leaves with­out ask­ing for recognition. 

It took me years to under­stand that the women who raised me car­ried the sacred this way. Not from a pul­pit. Not with titles. Not through grand speeches. 

They car­ried it in aprons dust­ed with flour.  In jars of canned green beans lined up in the cel­lar.  In cof­fee shared across kitchen tables. In quilts stitched through long win­ters. In herbs hang­ing from porch rafters. In hands that some­how always knew exact­ly what to do. 

And some­times . . .

They car­ried it home one buck­et of water at a time. 

Only much lat­er would I dis­cov­er that women have been meet­ing beside wells for thou­sands of years. 

In the pages of Scripture. 
In the vil­lages of Ireland and Scotland. 
In the hills of Wales. 

In places where peo­ple believed heav­en brushed close enough to touch the earth. 

When I first began read­ing those sto­ries, I expect­ed them to feel for­eign. Instead, they felt strange­ly familiar. 

As though I had heard them before. 
Not with my ears. 
But with my memory. 

Maybe that’s because every fam­i­ly has its own well. Not always one built from stone. Sometimes it’s a kitchen table. Sometimes it’s a front porch. Sometimes it’s an old fam­i­ly Bible with names writ­ten inside the cover. 

A place where gen­er­a­tions return again and again, draw­ing from some­thing deep­er than themselves. 

For me, it has always been that old well in my Great Gran’s front yard. I thought it was only hold­ing water. 

Now I won­der if it was hold­ing sto­ries all along.