Over Here
The absence of basins and such-like didn't worry us; we just couldn't locate any aqua pura or otherwise. (It was a wine town.) There wasn't even a hydrant within half a mile from where our kitchen was.
The first morning we went washless to "chow." The next some of the boys borrowed a bucket of water from somewhere and as many as could dove in. The third morning one of the early birds ducked his head in the door and yelled, "Come on, you guys, and wash! Beaucoup water, basins n'everything." We wondered who our benefactor could be and learned it was the little old lady next door.
We had noticed her a time or two before. She always had a "bon jour" for the boys. Her hair was gray and time had left deep etchings on her face. Declining years (and doubtless heavy labor) had bent her shoulders and her step was faltering but she was of the stock that dies with boots on. The look in her eyes---over the stumpy spectacles---told you that.
She couldn't talk our language but she knew how good a morning wash felt to us and she was busy lugging more water for the row of china basins---her basins---and the line of husky soldiers----Uncle Sam's soldiers. "Round the house she hobbled and shortly reappeared with the old (retired) sprinkler-bucket brimful. Several hastened to help her. But no, she could carry the bucket alone. Let the boys go on with their splashing. She understood. Didn't she have two sons in the army?
Thereafter, every morning, no matter how early we got up or how dismal the weather, our washing water and the basins were always there. Our old "grandmere," as she called herself, never forgot us. And what would she appreciate in return for all this thoughtfulness? Why, just a bite now and then of our army white bread. And it was nothing but "punk" to us and a darned poor variety of that.
[Your Name Here]
Post a Comment
Reader Comments