I have a very clear memory of my Daddy, in his jeans and his blue chambray shirt that Mama made him, standing at my Granny’s sink near the door to the back porch. He has one of her small red solo cups of water in his hands. He is standing, staring out the back window over the sink, looking out over the cow pastures and the barn and the pasture where our horse was grazing. He might have been thinking about hunting a tree in the woods come Christmas, or he might have been anticipating the weather and trying to decide what he could accomplish before the storm came up. Or he might have been just resting his mind and heart for a few minutes.
He takes his cup and leans over the sink, refilling it at the faucet. He takes a long drink, and the “ahhh” sound comes from him as he swallows. It is refreshing and it is good.
It was only recently that I figured out why he always went and took a drink of water from Granny’s sink before we left. Staring out at the place he grew up, he took a long drink of water–water that tasted like home.
I feel the same way. It was the last thing I used to do when I visited Mama and Daddy–fill my cup with “Blackberry Flats juice,” as Mama called it. Well water, straight from the kitchen sink. Nothing better. I too stood, looking out the window over the sink. Watching the littles playing on the swings, remembering our swingset Daddy had put up in the back for us when we were little. He even brought home a slide from the landfill and worked to attach it to the playset and built a ladder for it. I looked at the silver maple that has grown so much over the years, remembering sitting in a lawn chair out there, the summer after I graduated from college, moving the chair so I’d stay in the shade as the sun travelled across the sky.
There’s something healing about water from home, something that touches my soul. And my Daddy’s too. While he was at Emory University Hospital for those weeks while they worked out his diagnosis as he fought the Giant, whenever we went to see him, we took up washed out milk jugs filled with Blackberry Flats “juice.” Daddy didn’t like the water up there, and I can understand why. We even met my aunt and uncle once as they were passing through on their way up there to see Daddy, and we handed off a couple of gallons.
My people are serious about their water.
And there’s nothing like cold well water.
Tonight I am thankful for the comforts of home. And the memories. They refresh my soul and fill me up with good things–the strength and will to carry on and keep on lovin’ folks. Just like Mama and Daddy did.
There’s something in the water y’all.
And it’s all good.