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Books About Life on a Farm Written Especially for People Who Like to Read! "Highly recommended reading." The Midwest Book Review Reviews & Readers' Comments |
LeAnn R. Ralph Rural Route 2 Author E6689 970th Ave. Colfax, WI 54730 (715) 308-6336 |
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by LeAnn R. Ralph Just across the road from my house is an eight-acre woods. And near one end flows a small spring. Nothing too remarkable. The water emerges from the ground, runs downhill to the neighbor's land, and eventually drains into a pond. (This is the same spring where Cuddles gained his freedom on a summer evening so many years ago). But every time I walk through those woods and look at that spring, I think of my mother. Mom was a teenager during the drought years of the Depression. In this particular part of the countryside, only a couple miles cross country to the Hay River, there are probably dozens of springs - five on my brother's farm alone. During the Depression, wells ran dry, and so did many of the springs in the area. But not the little spring in the woods by my house. And so, every day, or every other day, my mother carried a shovel to the spring and dug out a hole to make a place for their cattle to drink. It's not like the spring was close to the house, either (although there is a spring by the house, but that one dried up during the Depression). The little spring is about as far back on the property as you can get from the house. When my mother told me about digging out a spot for their cattle, she never made it sound as if she minded the job. After all, having a place for the cattle to drink meant they wouldn't have to draw as much water from the well, which meant the well wouldn't dry up as fast. In fact, the well - only about 40 feet deep - tapped into a spring vein itself and never did go dry during the Depression. (It's only been within the last several years that my brother drilled a new well some 200 feet deep. The old well, dug before the turn of the century, served for many years.) When I was a kid, I was enchanted by the little patch of woods with its spring. (I still am, I guess.) The clearing by the spring was the place of childhood picnics. The spot became a frequent destination for rides with my pony. She hated getting her feet wet, although it was only a couple of inches deep. The first time I walked through the woods across from house after I moved back here, I was shocked to see the little spring was dry. Near the spring head only a small pool of water existed. When I was growing up, the spring always contained water. And as my mother said, it never went dry, even during the drought years of the Depression. I wondered what had happened to it. Several people I talked to in the area said they have seen other springs go dry, too. And they attributed the phenomenon to a number of large irrigation systems installed in surrounding townships. Then the first August we lived here, we experienced a week-long series of thunderstorms which deposited 13 inches of rain. After that, the next time I walked through the woods, the little spring once again trickled merrily on its way. It's funny, you know, how you take some things for granted until they're gone. And then you wish you had them back. I know I won't ever take the little spring for granted again - now that I know it only takes a dry spell during the summer to make it disappear. |
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