Our home in Jerome Prairie where I grew up depended on a dug well for water. It was just outside the house and was about six feet in diameter and a little over 35 feet deep. A rickety old wooden ladder gave access to the water below for whatever maintenance was needed. And one day it was apparent some maintenance was needed because the water coming from the faucet was dirty. Sister Virginia's husband, Carl, would supervise the operation while little Billy (that's me) would be the ladder descender (Carl was a big guy and that ladder would never support his weight).
What could go wrong?
First step was to get what water was in the well out so the additional dirt removal could proceed. Carl's and my knowledge of air pressure and gravity as it relates to moving water vertically was zero. I would later learn that at sea level the weight of pressure from the air will move water up a pipe just short of 34 feet while the weight of the water in the pipe will be pulled down by gravity.
Carl lowered a fiber hose with about a two inch diameter into the well and connected it to a pump activated by a gas motor, The pump started, sucking air out of the hose which caused it to collapse and seal shut so no water could enter. Head scratching by the well cleaners.
OK, Carl said, what we got to do is push the water up the hose instead of trying to suck it up. So we will build a little platform and put the motor on it and lower the pump down next to the water and Billy can go down the ladder and run the pump. Doesn't that make perfect sense?
So we build the platform. We rig a tripod over the well with a wheel to guide the support rope that is attached to the platform holding the pump (reviewing this operation years later I knew at this point we should have arranged for music to start playing, "Send in the clowns"). Down went the platform. Down went Billy (who learns where the expression, "colder than a well digger's ass" came from). Billy pulled the rope to start the motor and the operation began.
Another scientific calculation the well restoration crew failed to consider: how long does it take a small gas motor to fill a thirty-five foot deep, six-foot-diameter well with carbon-monoxide fumes? Answer: Not very damn long. I started getting dizzy and knew I had to get out of there. Without shutting off the motor I started up the ladder and kept feeling worse and worse. Just short of the top I passed out and Carl caught the back of my shirt and pulled me out of the well. (Where was Lassie?)
Close call. I was very sick and spent the rest of the day stretched out breathing fresh air. Later, a few days of rain cleared the well water and we all lived happily ever after. Not sure we ever got smarter.
