There are
some places from childhood that never really leave you.
They may not have been famous. They may not have appeared on
any tourist map. They may have been nothing more than a place you passed on an
ordinary afternoon.
But years
later, something brings them back.
For me, one
of those places was a little hand pump in Schiller Woods on Chicago's Northwest
Side.
More than
fifty years ago, my friend John and I made our way there. We weren't looking
for an adventure. We were on an errand.
John's
family was Polish, and like many Polish families in the area, they had heard
about the water that flowed from an old pump in the woods.
They
believed it was special.
So we brought along three Jerry cans and filled them with water.
I don't
remember thinking much about it at the time. It was simply something we did.
But looking
back, I realize that the pump represented something much larger than a source
of water.
It was a
connection to a place left behind.
Water from
the Old Country
For
generations, immigrants have carried memories of home in ways that aren't
always easy to explain.
Sometimes it
is a recipe.
Sometimes a
song.
Sometimes a
smell.
And
sometimes, apparently, it is water.
For Polish
and other Eastern European families who settled on Chicago's Northwest Side,
the water from Schiller Woods had acquired a reputation for being different
from the water that came from their kitchen faucets.
Some said it
reminded them of the mineral water found at spas and springs in Poland.
Whether the
water possessed remarkable properties was almost beside the point.
People
believed in it.
And belief
can give an ordinary thing an extraordinary life.
The water
came from an underground aquifer, where it picked up minerals as it moved
through the earth. That mineral content helped give it a taste noticeably
different from ordinary Chicago tap water.
The old hand
pump became a destination.
People came
with bottles, jugs and cans.
They filled
them and carried the water home.
And the
tradition continued.
The Old Pump
The pump
itself had an almost storybook quality.
It stood in
the woods doing something very simple: providing water.
But simple
things sometimes acquire complicated histories.
The pump was
installed around 1945, and over the decades it became part of the landscape of
Schiller Woods.
It also
became part of Chicago folklore.
There were
claims about the water's health benefits. Some believed it could cure ailments.
Others simply enjoyed the taste.
And then
there were the people who came because their parents and grandparents had
always come.
That may be
the most powerful reason of all.
Traditions
don't always survive because someone can explain them.
Sometimes
they survive because someone says:
"This
is what we do."
The Handle
Of course,
nothing involving an old hand pump remains simple forever.
The pump
handle had a habit of breaking.
One report
even suggested that when the handle broke, it was usually reported
quickly—because someone was always waiting to use the pump.
There was a
certain sense of humor to the whole thing.
People were
apparently so devoted to this water that a broken pump handle was not a minor
inconvenience.
It was an
emergency.
And someone
once offered an appropriate Chicago assessment of the water:
It made a
pretty good highball.
Maybe that
was the most honest description of all.
You didn't
have to believe the water was magical.
You could
simply enjoy it.
When the
Water Disappeared
Eventually,
the old pump's story took another turn.
Around 1974,
the handle was removed.
For those
who had grown accustomed to visiting the pump, this was more than the
disappearance of a piece of hardware.
It felt like
the disappearance of a tradition.
But the
story wasn't over.
In 1975,
after testing and attention from those who cared about the old water, the pump
was restored with a replacement handle.
The water
flowed again.
And people
returned.
That's the
part of the story I like best.
Someone
cared enough to bring the old pump back to life.
Back to Schiller Woods
Years later,
I found myself thinking about that place again.
I thought
about John.
I thought
about those three Jerry cans.
I thought
about his Polish family carrying the water home because they believed it tasted
like something from the country their parents or grandparents had left behind.
And I
realized that perhaps the magic wasn't in the water at all.
Maybe the
magic was in what people carried away with it.
A bottle of
water could become a reminder of Poland.
A hand pump
could become a meeting place.
A walk
through the woods could become a memory that lasted more than half a century.
And an
ordinary spring could become part of a family's history.
That's how
places become special.
Not because
they are necessarily extraordinary when we first encounter them, but because we
attach our memories to them.
The old pump
in Schiller Woods gave people water.
But it also
gave them something else.
A taste of
home.
A reason to
return.
And, for some of us, a memory that refuses to dry up.
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