The Old Pump House

Last week we destroyed one of the farms enduring landmarks.  Just steps from my back door (like really, only four or five steps) stood a five foot tall hill of concrete covered with dirt.  I'm sure it was originally built as a bomb shelter in the 1950's, a dome shaped mound about ten feet across with a flight of steps leading down to the small room, sealed with a slanted wooden door.  Our kids loved rolling, sledding, or just running down the sloped sides.  The German Shepherd, Boomer, would sit on the top and survey his kingdom (and stare in the kitchen window to send mind signals that it was dinner time).  The top of the hill was so thinly covered with dirt that the only thing that would grow there was weeds, which had to be trimmed with a weed-eater because it was too steep for the lawn mower.   A few hardy, but sparse, flowers decorated the old rocks piled around the base on one side.  Mostly it just looked neglected, which it usually was.

For years this concrete shelter housed the pump that provided water for the house from the walled up well just behind it that was the farm's cistern and water supply.  This cistern held about 2000 gallons when full.  Ideally, this water would be supplied from rains that fell on the roof and were collected by a gutter system.  In the winter our water always tasted of smoke from the fireplace.  In the summer I tried not to think about the large, green frog that my daughter insisted she had seen swimming in the cistern.  During the dry times we would haul water from town to replace the ever dwindling supply.  With cattle to water in the barn and two teen-agers, the man who hauled our water became a frequent visitor.

We have now had city water for several years and the old pump finally quit so I can't even use it to water the flowers any more.  So we decided to knock the hump in so I can have a yard outside my back door.  Surprisingly it wasn't easy to decide to do.  So many children and dogs have played happily on the hill that it was a defining feature of a trip to the farm.  It also was a symbol of the past when bombs were a new threat and having water in the house worth having a hill at the back door.

When my parents moved from the farm to town when I was three, my mother declared in no uncertain terms, that she would not move back to the farm until she had all the conveniences of town.  Running water and electricity!  While things have certainly improved since then, after years of living in town, we were a little unprepared for the adventure of living on a small cistern.  Our children, then 7 and 10, had never known anything but the luxury of plenty of water and a secure electrical supply.  Things you don't take for granted living on a farm.

We all lived with one eye on the water level of the cistern.  Someone was always lugging the heavy, metal lid off to run a tape measure down to see how many feet we had left.  Then we'd hurry to the house to call for a load of water.  Even with constant checking it occasionally happened that we would run out of water. 

One time stands out in my memory.  It was a Friday night in the summer.  The kids had been helping around the farm all day and had arrived for supper to be greeted with the news that we were out of water.  The water man had been called but it was a dry time and he was so busy that he couldn't get to us until the next morning.  My daughter looked at me in horror.  "No-o-o-o!" she wailed.  "I've got a party tonight and I stink like a barn!!!"  "It'll be fine",  I soothed.  "You can just freshen up and put on some perfume and no one will be the wiser."  With a look of stark disbelief at my insensitivity, she stalked up the stairs to her room.

A few minutes later she clattered down again.  Thinking she was heading out to sulk, I let her pass in silence.  I glanced out the kitchen window a little later to observe her returning from the barn carrying a five gallon bucket.  She disappeared into the shop and re-emerged carrying a length of rope.  She marched over to the cistern, drug the top off, and proceeded to tie her rope to the bucket.  She then dropped the bucket down into the cistern until she reached the reservoir of water below the intake valve for the pump.  Soon she was straining on the rope and pulling as hard as she could.  Now, let me tell you, water is heavy.  Even not full, that was a heavy load to haul up.  I was turning to hunt her dad or brother to help when she gave a last heave and grabbed the bucket bale.  With a look of satisfaction she hauled her precious bucket of water in to the bathroom.

She appeared after a time, fresh, pretty and party-ready, smelling sweetly of clean skin and soap. 

Never underestimate the determination of a teen-ager going to a party!