Cleaning the well

Many of my memories are of traumatic events and this one was no different. Along with our outhouses hundreds of feet away from our house we had wells hundreds of feet from the house. I once had the task of carrying water from our new well. I was given a two gallon bucket which I filled at the well (without falling in) and toted home. Because of the relatively heavy weight of the two gallon bucket of water (compared to a six year old), there was a lot of slop and the bucket was very nearly half empty (or full depending on your level of depression) by the time I covered the couple hundred feet. I think that was the only time I was sent for water.

But that is not what this post is about. There comes a time when a well needs to be cleaned and the one near my uncle Art's house was in need of cleaning (I think this is where we got our water also and its not being cleanable was probably why we got our well mentioned above). There was much trash in the bottom of Art's well including the base of a broken bottle. It was place perfectly so that as I walked along the wet grassy slope, I slipped and fell on it. The muscle on my right thumb was cut to the bone. Blood was shooting everywhere. Someone finally arrived with a towel (the wrong cloth for a bleeding limb but that is another story) and wrapped my hand. This time it was 17 miles to the closest town and another 25 miles to a town with a doctor available. The stitches were unbelievably painful and I remember being told to be quiet. I imagine that the pain was mostly in my mind as I am quite sensitive to pain even today.