Two Wells

Those of us who are old enough to remember the Summer of 1959 might recall the release of Ben Hur and its lead actor -- Charlton Heston. Others might remember that Alaska and Hawaii began American states, or that Frank Sinatra had the album of the year, ìCome Dance With Me,î while Bobby Darinís ìMack the Knifeî was heralded as song of the year.

America was beginning an unprecedented economic boom. As a result, life was good for most Americans and most Americans can cherish fond memories of this era in American history. Regrettably, the experience was very different for African Americans. Nineteen hundred and fifty-nine was four years before the celebrated March on Washington, and for many who would participate in the march, their memories consist of racial tension, segregation, oppression, unemployment, and police brutality.

Perhaps, the greatest threat to democracy lies in the different experiences of its people, our different memories and perception of what is the truth.

I was only 10 years old in the 1959, and only just beginning to understand the difference between being homosexual and being transsexual. The word ëtranssexualí was new to me. I had only heard it during a news report about Christine Jorgensen. The word could not even be found in my fatherís dictionary, and this occurred many years before there was a common appreciation for whatís come to be called the information superhighway.

Whereas, for most people, Christine Jorgensen with little more than a news item, and most assuredly a sexual oddity, for me she was like Joan of Arc or Sojourner Truth. She was a savior -- a heroine who had arrived to lead me away from my confusion and personal hell.

That Summer -- the summer of 1959, I and my sisters were driven by my parents to my grandparents farm in La Plata, Maryland. They owned most of what is Charles County today. I do not know how they came to lose so much property. However, it was not long after they passed that all of the land was confiscated by the State of Maryland.

Iíll always remember the stench of driving through northern New Jersey. For years afterwards, I maintained the belief that the entire state was comprised of oil refineries. I knew nothing of Princeton or New Brunswick back then.

The road that led to my grandparentís house was unpaved -- an old dirt road nearly half a mile long. It excited us as children to see the solitary home off in the distance. We grew more excited as we approached it and watched our grandparents step outside to greet us.

Grandfather stood 6-feet, three-inches tall. He was a massive man -- 200 pounds of solid muscle. He was a farmer and he looked like a farmer. Iíd say he was a manís man. Surely, I would never grow to be like him. At least, it was my hope.

Grandmother stood dwarfed by her husband. She was a small and fragile lady who always saved her sweetest smile for her grandchildren. There was a light in her eyes that could bring a tear to most hardened criminal. There is no way to describe her femininity and demeanor, except to say she was a lady and a very kind soul. If I grew to be like anyone, I hoped I could grow to be like her.

To me it was if they lived in a different century. There was neither indoor plumbing, nor electricity. Heat was provided through two wood-burning stoves. One was used almost solely to heat the house during the colder months. The other was used to heat the house and for cooking.

Smoke from the wood burning stove was pervasive. Everything was scented with the smell of firewood. It wasnít a bad aroma, but it was different.

Light was provided through kerosene lanterns. there was at least one in every room of the house. It fascinated me to watch them being lit and adjusted according to the needs of my grandparents.

And, yes, there was an out house used as a toilet. There was also a well not far from the outdoor bathroom facility. I was told that the well was contaminated and that the water from it could not be used for cooking or drinking purposes.

I could not imagine that such a remarkable well, with a functional pump, could possibly be unsafe. I pumped for water, filled the bucket and saw that the water was clear. How could my grandparents claim it was contaminated?

We were told that water for drinking and cooking had to be obtained from a different well. This second well was a quarter mile away from the house and was located at the base of a tree.

ìA well at the base of a tree?î I questioned even the possibility.

Anyway, I was led by an older cousin to the natural phenomenon. I doubted this was possible each step along the worn path covered with incredibly huge insects and even a snake that slithered away as we approached.

Then, there it was -- the well, just as my grandparents had described it. Some underground source provide the coldest water imaginable and it collected at the base of an old oak tree.

I reached into it and discovered it was as cold as ice, although the atmospheric temperature was near to 100 degrees. How could it be so cold? This was clearly more than a phenomenon. For me, it was a miracle!

There was, however, a tiny frog that swam in the pool of water. The presence of a frog disturbed me. How could the water be any good, if it was inhabited by a frog? How could it be any safer than the well water so much nearer to the house.

My cousin called himself proving to me that the water was safe by drinking some of it. I believed him and found that unlike city water it was refreshingly tasteless and incredibly cool. It was, in fact, the best water I had ever tasted in my entire lifetime. And although my entire life was no more than a decade, I was as impressed as anyone could be even at 100 years old!

My cousin and I were called upon to fetch water several times during our stay in La Plata. On some occasions we were asked to go to the well during what seemed like the hottest part of the day. This gave me an idea. I had always been told that I was incredibly bright for my age. Now, I would have a chance to prove it.

How thankful and appreciative everyone would be, if I could prove that the water from the well near to the out house was as safe to drink as the water from the well at the base of the tree. So, early that morning, before I could be asked to go to the well down the road, I pumped water from the well nearest to the house. After filling the bucket, I drank a full glass of it.

When my mother woke, I told her what I had done. Instead of praise, she scolded me and I couldnít understand why. Within 24 hours however I came down with a fever and was rushed back to New York.

Doctors came to the house back then, and when my doctor arrived he diagnosed that I had scarlet fever. The source of the fever was, of course, the tainted water. The good doctor explained that, although in both instances the water was clear, the water from the well nearest to the house had been contaminated by material from the house that had seeped through the walls of the well. And even at 10 years of age, I understood precisely what the doctor meant.

Now, some of you might want to know what all this has to do with cross dressing, with being transgendered or with being transsexual. ìWhat is the moral of the story?î some might ask. I canít, however, answer that question. Iím a writer. My job is to write. I prefer that the Reader make his or her own interpretation.

However, if I were a Reader, I might think the story meant that one is best not to judge a book by its cover, nor to believe that everything that looks female and demure is actually female -- even if anatomically correct.

The End

Dear Reader,

I am a writer and like most writers I live for responses from Readers like you. Please take a few minutes to comment on "The Memoirs of a Trangsendered Lady." Contact me at RADANGLE@aol.com. Thank you.

Roberta Angela Dee @>~~>~>~~~~

RADANGLE@aol.com