Member-only story
A Father’s Day Memory: Powsin Spring
Sometimes the simplest memories can be the most powerful. Chris Wiewiora shares a story from his childhood in Warsaw, Poland.
In a forest, outside of Warsaw, two rows of metal faucets gushed water into white ceramic sinks. I stood in line holding Dad’s hand. One of the spigots squeaked closed; the flow stopped, and then a Pole left with a filled container. I could whistle more birdsongs than I could say Polish phrases that I’d memorized. I stayed quiet with Dad. Another Polish person stepped up and untwisted the valve, opening the flow again.
Mom didn’t trust the tap water in our house. She said the pipes could be made out of lead. Even Superman couldn’t see through lead, so how could anyone know what was in the city water? This water from the spring was clear and had to be clean.
I breathed deep and got a whiff of the pollen from the trees and the diesel from the parking lot. I knocked one of the plastic jugs against my leg. Dad held his jug steady. Rivulets of overspill mixed with the dirt path.
I moved away from the mud. I didn’t want to get my Air Jordans dirty. Mom had wanted me to wear my leather sandals, but my toes always got cold, and socks in sandals looked dumb. I was…
