Saturday Night – 22 March 2008 - Hey, anybody still out there…I’ve fielded some calls about the heavy rains in Arkansas this past week – nothing that has affected this place. The river is running high and muddy, but not a danger here – and, I’ve been thinking about: Water.

In my early years in St. George, Utah, the water ran down the concrete gutters of Main Street, each family took their water turn. I remember Dad getting up in the night or early mornings, to put in the metal plate, in essence a dam, and turn the water onto our property. When Henry was in St. George in 1959, he thought the water running down Main Street was “quaint”. It was. Kids waded in it in summers – the water in the gutters and ditches is a lovely institution, ruined by closed water mains. Our drinking water came from springs, it didn’t run down Main Street but was housed in a concrete tank on the Red Hill (on the flat top of this tank we roller skated). The water was pure and clear and cold.

Not the case when we lived in Hobbs, New Mexico. Not pure, not clear, not cold. We drank it, but noticed that many locals did not. Most homes had large water coolers in their kitchens. (the Culligan Man?) That seemed an extravagant expense to us, we just drank the local water.

At this time in our history, we had three dollars left over every month, after paying the mortgage, the car payment, the stereo payment - an absolute necessity! – and ten dollars a week at the grocery store. This certainly did not include buying water, since it came out of the kitchen tap. Peter commented to me recently, “three dollars is all you had left each month? Why didn’t you get a job, mom?” Why would I? We always had money left over – could go to the movie once a month. We were fine. Besides, it never occurred to me to get a job, and want more. I was a 1950s housewife in the classic sense.

After a year or so living in Hobbs, I began to realize that some old timer locals had brown teeth, but thought little of it – they must not brush very well! We lived in Hobbs about four years, long enough to be pregnant with Peter in 1962 and Allison in 1965. Some years later, as teenagers, Peter and Allison would have their dental checkups in the States, and invariably the dentist would ask, “were these kids raised in West Texas?” They had mottled teeth, not brown, but chalky mottled. And, rock hard. A dentist here in Fort Smith looked into Allison’s mouth when she was about thirteen, and told me, basically: she has the most perfect teeth I’ve ever seen. The mottling is beautiful, as she will never have a cavity, and at the risk of my own ruined income, I would say she would never have to visit a dentist again. After quizzing me about where she grew up, and checking Peter’s teeth, he also will never have a cavity, the dentist decided it was the water in Hobbs that I drank while expecting them. Strong minerals and naturally occurring fluoride. We were, fortunately, there just long enough to set them up for life, but not turn their teeth brown, since we wouldn’t pay for bottled water!

Transfer to Tripoli. Peter was age three, Allison was three months. The water coming through our kitchen tap came from a locally owned well about two blocks away, in a yard with chickens and a screen over the opening, hopefully the screen stayed put. We were advised upon arrival, that boiling our water would be a very good idea. I acquired two teapots, holding about two gallons each, those, plus a couple of stew pots, gave me four containers that I filled every night with tap water and boiled about twenty minutes. In the morning I made milk with powdered milk and the tepid water. When we went to the States on vacation the kids found milk from the grocery store distasteful - too different. I boiled water religiously, with an occasional lapse – WHY am I chained here to this stove and these four pots of water?

Now, we discovered bottled water – the local Ben Gashir, Henry loved. As I type here, I am looking at a rusted bottle opener that has hung in our every kitchen since Tripoli – it is inscribed “Fonte ben Gascir”. This term cannot be found on the web now – except as a town the Italians bombed in about 1912. The Ben Gashir wells, where “moya Ben Gashir” is bottled, are a few miles from the Tripoli Airport.

The other water Henry loved was San Pellegrino, widely available in Tripoli, since there were so many Italian shops and restaurants. I just looked up San Pellegrino on Wikipedia – a most interesting history, I had no idea, we simply took it for granted – Italian bottled water that is really good stuff. I suggest, dear reader! You take a minute and Google San Pellegrino, then go out and buy a bottle of this water that as far back as 1509 impressed even Leonard da Vinci.

Actually, I never liked these bottled waters like Henry did; they are too bubbly for me. Eventually, Henry graduated to Perrier – and I thought, O Please. To this day, I still buy a case of Perrier about every two weeks. Allison acquired the Perrier habit as a little kid, so I keep it stocked here at the house, in Henry’s honor, and for any time Allison drops by, which can be about five days a week!

Back to the well in Tripoli: it ran dry in the summers, on a regular basis. This is when I discovered the value of water storage. Otherwise, I would load up our Fiat 600, basically a steering wheel and four tires, just slightly larger than your grandmother’s treadle Singer sewing machine, with WWII jerry cans, and drive around town, knocking on doors, asking if anybody had water. Not every well in the city ran dry, at least not at the same time. Remember, we had no telephones. This was a peaceful blessing, except in times of dried up water wells.

And, we bought a very large garbage can for bathing in the kitchen, so I didn’t have to haul hot water from the stove to the bathroom. It seems that somewhere we have a picture of Henry, standing in that garbage can and soaping up – he, grinning from ear to ear. We used this only when he was in from the rig, so that he could lift the can and pour the used bath water down the kitchen sink.

Five years later, in Marsa el Brega, a company town on the coast, where the tankers loaded, we had hot and cold water taps – they were quite salty brine – and a separate sweet water tap, for drinking and a dishwasher. Those folks smart enough to re-plumb their house and run sweet water to their bathroom sink, were summarily fired and repatriated to the States, if discovered. I never knew of anybody actually fired, but the urban legend was real. Our kitchen sink water drained through the wall into a 55 gallon drum, from which we ran a garden hose, and continuously watered our gravel, where I encouraged great patches of succulents to grow. They loved soapy water.

In this house here in Fort Smith, I hired a plumber to run a line from our washing machine to the yard, to water during summer drought. He informed me that nearly everyone living outside the city limits does this, but in Fort Smith he would lose his license if he by-passed the “grey water laws”. He left in haste. I asked another plumber - the same story - but, through the side of his mouth he explained how simple it would be and who would ever know? He told me to find a handyman without a license to lose. This will be my next project.

In Arabia we had the same three faucet situation as in Marsa el Brega – hot, cold, and sweet. Abqaiq water was okay, hard and left you itchy after a shower, but okay. Henry learned to drink the tonic water at the commissary – was it called Carlsberg? The water in Ras Tanura I never got accustomed to – turn on the tap and it smelled like the refinery to me. Especially after just returning from a repat, I would come back to RT and almost be physically sick smelling the water the first few weeks. Henry said I was over reacting, I should be grateful we lived in such a lovely place! This is the situation that drove me to apple juice! And nearly ruined my teeth with all that sweet.

Dhahran water, in contrast, was just fine. No refinery smell. Plus, by now I had learned to drink Saudi champagne – a great combination of apple juice and sparkling bottled water and orange slices and sprigs of mint. Elixir of the gods. Plus, by now I had perfected lemonade – into the blender went frozen lemonade concentrate, ice cubes, a bit of water, and then onto the heavy slush in the glass, a shot of cranberry juice, which hung in the crushed ice, forming a layer of color. This lemonade concoction (masking the taste of the water) became as associated with the Cook household as did cinnamon rolls.

So, here we are in the aftermath of the rain. I know of at least one Easter Egg Hunt that was cancelled today – the field was too marshy and muddy.

And now, it is Easter Morning - a little quote from The Good Book seems appropriate, since I got onto this Water subject -

Jesus at the Well with the Woman of Samaria:

…“Jesus answered and said unto her, If thou knewest the gift of God, and who it is that saith to thee, Give me to drink; thou shouldest have asked of him, and he would have given thee living water,

“the woman saith unto him…from whence then hast thou that living water? … Jesus answered and said unto her, Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again:

But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life.”

Happy Easter to you all - and bye for now from Bonnie and Cook Family