There is something cathartic about filling our jugs at the “watering hole.” A loving term for the coal bank that provides water to so many on Wolfpen and the surrounding area.
We don’t have drinkable water in our cabin. As many around here who mostly have well water, it is orange with sulfur or iron. We bathe in it, wash clothes, that kind of thing, but for cooking or drinking we have to use bottled water or water from the “watering hole.”
Water rushes 24/7 from an old partially collapsed mine through a PVC pipe that someone rigged up. It comes from deep in the ground – pure and clear. It tastes very mineral rich almost salty, but very good and refreshing. We often have to wait in line to fill our jugs, and you can almost always expect to see someone there when passing by.
I’ve always thought of the well in biblical times. A communal fountain where one comes daily to draw their water, talk with the others drawing water, and work for their daily bread. I didn’t dream our little watering hole would feel that way, but as we fill our jugs people drive by and wave. Some stop to talk. I glean much satisfaction standing there filling my jug. Much more than just running water out of my sink. Knowing there is untreated pure water still in existence on this planet, is relaxing. Gathering the weeks water is natural. It’s real. It isn’t only a chore.