Hartley Neita, Contributor
THERE WAS once a well in my village which provided water for everyone.
There was no electricity in the village then, and so a windmill drew the water from the bottom of the well.
The windmill was also a weather vane, and we could see the direction from which the wind came, and where it went.
In the early hours after dawn, the windmill was silent. There was no wind then; but after mid-morning the wind began to blow from the south across the broad Clarendon plains from the far away sea, lightly at first and gradually becoming heavier and heavier, spinning the windmill faster and faster until after two in the afternoon when it became tired of blowing itself from so far south.
The windmill rested until next morning.
The water was pulled into a concrete tank atop four 15-foot tall pillars. When it was full a man employed by the Parochial Board disconnected the pump, preventing water from over filling the tank and spilling over to go to waste.
Rain
Rain came heavily in our village twice each year. In May and October. Every year. It poured. Day and night. The wind blew heavily then and the tank was full all the time, although we did not need it as much then.
We played board horse at the edge of the road when the rain stopped for its short spells. Few cars and trucks drove the road then, and the drivers were kind and polite. They drove slowly and carefully because they knew we would be walking and playing carelessly, even though our parents and teachers warned us of the danger. Their children also played board horse and hopscotched from puddle to puddle.
It was dry during the other 10 months. The earth became rock hard. The air was hot and burnt our noses as we breathed. For days, too, the wind was light. The tank went dry, and we had to depend on the Public Works Department's sprinklers to carry water from the Rio Minho four miles away to fill them. And because it was hot we drank a lot of water during those times.
We gathered in groups, and looking at the silent windmill we whistled the wind. There were the times we saw the leaves of the trees being tickled by the breeze's breath, gently, and we felt it kissing our faces all over, tenderly. And, had we known then what a lover's whisper was like we would have been in rhapsody.
Fading windmill
The windmill's blades actually moved, inch by inch. We heard the shaft struggling and creaking inside the well hole and the water it sucked up as it trickled into the tank. Drip by drip. And no one dared to tell us that our whistling did not bring the wind.
Today, there is a large public water supply serving our village. The water is drawn from rivers and wells by electric pumps. The homes now have water in the kitchens and bathrooms built inside the houses.
The windmill is a fading memory for the children who are now old grown men and women. The weather vane has rotted and disappeared or been blown away by a hurricane. Now, no one knows from where the wind comes or where it goes after it has passed.
And the children do not whistle the wind. Anymore.
