Walking up and down the same old streets, passing picket fences, gardens tilled by horse and plow, aged faces beat from the sun or maybe the test of time weathering their skin as the creases of their faces look like etched crevices. Hands that ivory soap would never get clean yet powerful enough to snap a chickens neck in an instant. Ah, dinner for tonight, no walking down to the local food store just out the backdoor into the coop grab a healthy looking bird, some vegetables from the garden, walk across the street or maybe down the road to the well that supplies the locals fresh Adam’s ale. Open the shed door, drop the bucket down about 25 feet till you hear it splash, let it sink into the crystal clear cold aqua, hand crank that bucket up, tilt it over filling your milk pale repeating this routine several times till your cup runith over with tonights water for cooking, washing cloths, bathing and hand watering those gardens that share their lushes fruits of love with you on a daily basis. As I walk the 6.48 miles roundtrip from our house to the store I reflect on what a very lucky man I am to live in a house that has a well, that well has been tapped to pump water into the house, we have indoor plumbing, a water heater that you plug in when you want hot water but hot water nunetheless, you can connect a hose up and water those fine vegetable gardens.