Back in Texas, water came out of the faucet, and that was that. I never gave it a moment’s thought, and I don’t recall paying much for water either.
Likewise, I don’t pay much for water now, but I sure have to give it thought.
About three times a year, I must fill this tank. Yesterday was one of those days. I put the ladder there to provide perspective. It’s a big ole tank. There are no pipes to or from this tank. It only has a faucet on the far side.
And that faucet gives this tank its reason to be, its raison d’être, a phrase that has never before been used in reference to a water tank.
Years ago, this tank fulfilled a grander purpose, but times changed, and now it only exists to pour water from its little faucet into a galvanized-tin tub, and that water is used to exhilarate plants on the terraza, nothing more.
We have one huge underground tank, and four more tanks above ground, one of which is on the roof. They all have pumps connected, save this one.
This is a lonely tank, no social connections, little use in life. Were this tank a woman, she would be in therapy. A man would just eat a gun barrel.
Briefly, for you guys, this is how the tank gets filled: A street pipe feeds a smaller tank that sits by the faraway front gate. From that tank, I fill a larger nearby tank via pump. From that larger tank, which is primarily for watering the entire yard, I fill this tank by another pump and a very long hose.
Before moving over the Rio Bravo at the age of 55, I had never owned a single pump or tank. I now have three pumps and five tanks.
That’s the kitchen window you see to the right, top photo. My child bride is standing in there making picadillo for lunch, but she’s lost in the dark. I don’t much care for picadillo, but I’ve never told her. Maybe I will.
Just one week away from March, I now proclaim that winter simply did not happen this year, first time since I moved over the border, a mystery that I cannot explain. No matter. It’s wonderful. I like living here . . .
. . . with my pumps and tanks.