I remember the day the well witcher came. I was both intrigued by the idea that this man with his crooked stick would find a source of water in the ground and disturbed that my parents actually hired him to do so.
We never had enough water. It was clean, pure water but it was not in abundance. I grew up letting yellow mellow not because it was environmentally friendly but because we didn’t want to run out of water for supper or the laundry or a bath.
That well witcher worked his magic but the water never ran clean enough to use.
On good, hot summer days my dad would load up the plastic blue rain barrel in the back of his old white Ford and I would eagerly hop in the front seat with him. Windows down we drove into town to my aunt’s house with the abundant city water that would quench our withered garden.
While the barrel filled from the backyard hose I ran wild for an hour with my close cousins, playing in their small city lot. I remember these evenings well, a testament to how simple the best memories in life are.
We would say our goodbyes and, on the very happiest evenings, when we got home my dad would let me change into my suit and jump feet first into my very own redneck swimming pool.