JANUARY 31, 2015;
Growing up in Louisa – Water!
Weekly feature . . . by Mike Coburn
Have you ever tasted sulfur water? I’d think if you lived up or down the spine of the Appalachian Mountains, you surely have. The deal is that I was a ‘town’ kid and usually drank from the treated water pumped out by the Louisa Water Company. I remember the treatment plant that I think still sits on the Levisa Fork just before Dead Man’s Curve, down the hill and across the C&O tracks below the Mayo Trail. There was a turn off just a little past the Flat Top restaurant and the roller rink. The road crossed the railroad and past a complex of houses and buildings I think was owned by the utility. The water they produced was clean and had no taste, so I considered it normal and good, especially when it was cold.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had plenty of water from the oak buckets that hung from wells scattered around Lawrence County. The liquid was usually dipped out with a gourd and drunk directly, all sharing the coolness with delight. Some of it would trickle down my chin and wet my shirt, but on a hot day the cold was more than welcome. This natural nectar given to us by God was always cold and worth enjoying.
I’ve also dipped my hands or face into spring waters that busted out of the ground here and there. There were also cold running streams, brooks, or creeks that ran down the hollows between the hills, usually splashing over well-worn rocks and creating pools before descending further down steam. The water in these, are so refreshing, especially if you’ve been out tramping for a time and your throat becomes parched. A certain caution to survey the area is recommended since the creek may be contaminated by runoff. Often out-houses and livestock were scattered along the banks, leaching it’s decant into the stream. That’s been a source of sickness and disease in the history of mankind.
I remember going to Huntington to my uncle’s house and having a glass of water there. I nearly spat it out and only avoided doing so because of my remarkable discipline and the desire not to embarrass him in my aunt’s attempts to be hospitable. This particular glass was full of tiny bubbles and had a smell to it. I should have been forewarned that the contents were unpalatable by its simple appearance, but no. I had to take in a whole mouth full of the big city water and then fight to swallow it in hopes I would survive the experience. I wonder to this day what was in it. I don’t think is was chlorine, which I now know was an ingredient necessary to sanitize and disinfect. Perhaps it was an over abundance of fluoride, or some phosphate added to improve the health of the system if not its customers. But even as I think of that shock, I shudder at what was yet to come.
Another time I took a drink from a glass innocently assuming it was water only to find out it was a strong drink, brewed locally for the illicit trade. That was a shock I yet remember and a reason I never had an urge to imbibe spirits. Besides seeing the damage that it did to my friends and relatives, it wasn’t particularly pleasant, anyway.
It was at Cabwaylingo, perhaps at a church or band camp, that I was introduced to the green monster that is the real subject of this writing. Monster is the only way I can describe the stuff. You see, after a mere sip, I knew at once that my brilliant white teeth had turned green much the same as copper or brass will color the fingers from a ring purchased at too small a cost. Green teeth aren’t socially welcome as far as I am concerned, but just as bad was the skim that coated everything it touched. The pipes beyond my mouth are precious to me and I have no desire to make them green either, but I had already swallowed the first sip of this freely offered drink without thinking. You see, I had innocently approached the stone fountain that was midway between the barracks and the swimming pool. I had no reason to suspect the product that would squirt from its orifice would teach me a lesson that I have carried for so many years.
As a teen, I might have raged at the trickery played upon my senses, but my peers where waiting their turn at the trough. Was it evil of me to back away and leave them to discover what I was already trying to erase from my memory? If a reader that was there happens to read this please, and remember that I had a chance to save them from the same misfortune, please forgive me for failing to block you from this horrible fountain of doom. Count it as youthful folly, but realize it was the shock that kept me from taking reasonable action to save my friends from the same fate. If it were not property of the great state of West Virginia, I might have smashed the plumbing or hung a sign with a ‘drink at your own risk.’
While I attended a number of camps at this place, I noticed that the water in the kitchen and barracks was normal, clean tasting and welcome, but I always took wide berth of that public fountain for I had learned it was not as refreshing that it seemed. I was amazed to see that many of my peers still lined up for more of this chemical laced fluid. I wondered if their constitutions were stronger than mine, or did they simply enjoy drinking from the well of the devil?
Yes, I said the devil. In plays and literature it is common knowledge that it is he that dwells in the place of fire and sulfur. When the preacher shouts his warning I envision the smoke, the heat and sadly having only sulfur water to quench my thirst. If there was ever a reason to walk the line, this was reason enough. I have seen the light and vowed to turn from my wicked ways in hopes I’ll never have to drink from that fountain again.
