Going for Water

I love how poetry can trigger a deluge of memories.

Looking for poetry with a water theme, I came upon Robert Frost’s Going for Water:

My grandfather had a one-room camp in the backwoods of New Brunswick where, on New Year’s day, 1962, my sister Cindy and I woke up snug in our sleeping bags. We were excited, as only young children can be, by the novelty of staying in the tiny cabin.

Heated by the potbellied stove, the air was tinged with the sharp smell of burning wood. It was still dim inside, lit only by the early morning sun shining through one small window high in the wall. Later, as we sat at the table finishing our porridge, I looked up at the window — now brilliant with sunlight. When I closed my eyes I saw dancing red squares, like flashbulb phantoms.

The camp was situated just inside a thicket of trees at the top of an open meadow. It had no running water, so a fresh supply had to be fetched in a sturdy old milk tin that was almost as tall as me. As our trek was to be done by toboggan, Dad enlisted our help to hold on to the tin.

My mother helped us bundle up in our woolen gear before we headed out into the breathtaking cold. The world seemed frozen to its core, and though the sun was shining brightly, its warmth did not quite reach us. The thick crust of the snow glittered with a coating of shiny crystals. We were forced to squint to keep out the dazzling sunlight.

Dad struggled as he pulled the toboggan into position at the top of the hill, breaking through the crust into the knee-deep snow with each step. Once the sled was ready, we all clambered onto it with the empty milk tin. Dad pushed off and away we sailed down the glistening meadow.

The frozen wind snatched away our breath, stifling our laughter. The toboggan flew over the crystalline sandpaper surface, making a rasping sound as it gained more and more speed. It could only be stopped by a deliberate and well-timed crash as we reached the bottom of the hill.

There, bare saplings fringed the edge of the woods. Fresh snow muffled the shapes of the undergrowth, as the path wended its way over tree stumps and through gaps in the bushes. Sunlight filtered through the filigreed canopy above us. In the hushed surroundings, I could hear the gurgling of the spring.

The clear sweet water burbled up, and even though it was the dead of winter, formed a pool in a gravel basin. We dipped our enamel cups into the spring and deposited the water, cup by cup, into the milk tin, filling it to the brim. Then I took off my soaking mittens and scooped up a drink with my bare hands. Out came my spare mittens to rescue my tingling pink fingers, while Dad hoisted the milk tin onto the toboggan for the trip back.

Standing one on each side, Cindy and I gripped the handles of the milk tin. We needed all of our strength to keep it upright as Dad hauled the toboggan back over the snow-covered humps in the path. When we reached the clearing, we could see smoke coming from the chimney of the little cabin.

With Dad in the lead, we struggled back up the hill. Often we slipped on the icy surface or broke through the crust into the soft snow beneath. But onward we trudged. We knew Mom was waiting to make us hot cocoa. Our hard-won spring water would make it all the more sweet.