Simple Things/ Lang Kenneth Haynes
Priming the pump
Priming the pump
From time to time you can still find old hand water pumps on farms and in parks. Pushing the handle down and jerking it up will eventually yield water, but it
can take fifty or so pumps before you get a drop. Another way to approach your quest for water would be to prime the pump by putting a little water into the small
receptacle near the top of the handle. I’m not exactly sure how it works but it does. Maybe the drops of water send a message to the underground source that it’s
time to make its torrents of clean, fresh water available to the masses. It’s as though the primary source is always waiting for the fragments to connect — like
Niagara Falls waiting for even the slightest hint of water, for it to merge with, to release the greatness and power that we have come to associate with Niagara
Falls. Maybe we all possess enormous, unimaginable power but appear relatively feeble because we are in the habit of hoarding our resources in the mistaken
belief that keeping our strengths to ourselves will make us stronger.
It’s about blending, or adding our individual and minimal contributions to the great recipe of life or what life could be. It’s about clearing away the branches
and other obstructions that slow down the journeys of small rivers to vast and fathomless oceans. And priming pumps isn’t limited to water or metaphors about
becoming one with the universe. For example, many of us have had our cars run out of gas. Some ride on fumes as a matter of habit or necessity, while others
may experience running out of gas on rare and unfortunate occasions — usually in winter and most often in the wee hours of the morning. The gas needle on the
gas gage is pointed to empty. In fact, it is below empty and the engine keeps on humming. It seems like a miracle and it is — until the engine stops. No warning.
No last gasps. No gasoline reserve light comes on and there is no reserve tank to switch to. The car just stops cold. Your transportation is instantly turned into a
3,000-pound hunk of steel sitting on the side of the road if you’re lucky, or partially obstructing a lane of traffic if you’re not. You go to the gas
station/convenience store that you’ve been to 1,000 times for gasoline, newspapers, muffins and candy bars, but the proprietor doesn’t offer you his usual
greeting. There is something urgent in your demeanor. He can tell that you need something of more substance than a large poppy seed muffin. You need a favor
and you reek of desperation and the only reason that the scent is familiar to the proprietor is that he, and everyone else on earth, has been in dire straits at times.
But it is you who are in obvious need of a little consideration, kindness and help today.
You explain your dilemma to the convenience store proprietor and he pretends to listen while ringing up a sale from a real customer. One who is about to
invest a small fortune in candy, gasoline, a couple of exorbitantly priced key chains and a shriveled hot dog that doesn’t appear to be the least bit edible. He
announces with a somber matter-of-fact monotone that it is the store’s policy not to lend out gas cans because cans are rarely returned and to add insult to injury
the borrowers of gas cans often abscond with the cans and have the nerve to fill their cars at other establishments. You politely and desperately try to convince
the proprietor that you are not one of those thankless patrons and that you probably spent in excess of $30, in the last two weeks, on poppy-seed muffins alone.
Your protestations are to no avail and you pay $9.95 for the red plastic 1-liter gas container. You walk back to you abandoned car and pull open the
compartment containing the gas cap, then the words of your father come to you saying that you’d better prime the pump first if you expect to start such a large
car with such a small amount of gasoline. So you listen to the voice and pop the hood and remove the butterfly nut to the metal housing of the air cleaner. And
right in the middle of the air cleaner is the carburetor into which you pour a little gasoline. The carburetor sucks up the nourishment noisily and gratefully and
you run to the rear of the car and pour the remaining gas into the tank. Then you run to the driver’s seat and turn the key. The engine groans and the gas gage
needle doesn’t budge. You turn the key again and the engine turns over. After kissing the steering wheel and thanking everything holy, you drive to the
convenience store and put $10 worth of gas in your car. Hopefully that will be enough to get you home because that’s all you have.
And if it weren’t for priming the pump you’d still be sitting in a cold car on the side of the road as hundreds of cars zipped by taking their owners to work early
on a Monday morning. But how many of us fail to prime our own pumps? Talk about waiting for retirement before pursuing our love for painting. Give up our love
for dancing because we are now past the prime years for dancing professionally. Discard our passion for writing because our great American novel was turned
down by 50 literary agents and as many publishers. It is my guess that this very moment is the best time for jumping head first into the things you love because we
have become quite expert at talking ourselves out of things. The timing is not quite right. The situation is difficult right now so it’s probably best to postpone this
endeavor to a better time. And we watch as one day turns into a week that turns into a month that turns into ten years that mysteriously turn into a lifetime. And
the optimal time never came.
What this all means is that if you love to dance, dance while waiting for the elevator. If you love to sing, sing loudly in and out of the shower. No. Your
shower is not Carnegie Hall, but it is your singing that matters because singing is special to you which means that it is special to others — if for no other reason
than their enjoyment of your obvious and unadulterated passion for singing because your passion will forcefully and good-naturedly demand that they rediscover
and exercise theirs. If you love to write, take joy in writing meeting minutes, shopping lists and — if you’re very lucky — regular columns for The Capital City Hues.
Maybe your column will be syndicated some day. Maybe not. Maybe your words will end up on the desk of an editor of The New Yorker Magazine, or this may
never happen. The important thing — no, the critical thing — is that we nurture the things we love with love and attention and priming the pump is a way to feed
our essence. A way to keep flowing with small rivers on their way to the ocean. A way to add our small gifts to infinite bounty of the universe.
can take fifty or so pumps before you get a drop. Another way to approach your quest for water would be to prime the pump by putting a little water into the small
receptacle near the top of the handle. I’m not exactly sure how it works but it does. Maybe the drops of water send a message to the underground source that it’s
time to make its torrents of clean, fresh water available to the masses. It’s as though the primary source is always waiting for the fragments to connect — like
Niagara Falls waiting for even the slightest hint of water, for it to merge with, to release the greatness and power that we have come to associate with Niagara
Falls. Maybe we all possess enormous, unimaginable power but appear relatively feeble because we are in the habit of hoarding our resources in the mistaken
belief that keeping our strengths to ourselves will make us stronger.
It’s about blending, or adding our individual and minimal contributions to the great recipe of life or what life could be. It’s about clearing away the branches
and other obstructions that slow down the journeys of small rivers to vast and fathomless oceans. And priming pumps isn’t limited to water or metaphors about
becoming one with the universe. For example, many of us have had our cars run out of gas. Some ride on fumes as a matter of habit or necessity, while others
may experience running out of gas on rare and unfortunate occasions — usually in winter and most often in the wee hours of the morning. The gas needle on the
gas gage is pointed to empty. In fact, it is below empty and the engine keeps on humming. It seems like a miracle and it is — until the engine stops. No warning.
No last gasps. No gasoline reserve light comes on and there is no reserve tank to switch to. The car just stops cold. Your transportation is instantly turned into a
3,000-pound hunk of steel sitting on the side of the road if you’re lucky, or partially obstructing a lane of traffic if you’re not. You go to the gas
station/convenience store that you’ve been to 1,000 times for gasoline, newspapers, muffins and candy bars, but the proprietor doesn’t offer you his usual
greeting. There is something urgent in your demeanor. He can tell that you need something of more substance than a large poppy seed muffin. You need a favor
and you reek of desperation and the only reason that the scent is familiar to the proprietor is that he, and everyone else on earth, has been in dire straits at times.
But it is you who are in obvious need of a little consideration, kindness and help today.
You explain your dilemma to the convenience store proprietor and he pretends to listen while ringing up a sale from a real customer. One who is about to
invest a small fortune in candy, gasoline, a couple of exorbitantly priced key chains and a shriveled hot dog that doesn’t appear to be the least bit edible. He
announces with a somber matter-of-fact monotone that it is the store’s policy not to lend out gas cans because cans are rarely returned and to add insult to injury
the borrowers of gas cans often abscond with the cans and have the nerve to fill their cars at other establishments. You politely and desperately try to convince
the proprietor that you are not one of those thankless patrons and that you probably spent in excess of $30, in the last two weeks, on poppy-seed muffins alone.
Your protestations are to no avail and you pay $9.95 for the red plastic 1-liter gas container. You walk back to you abandoned car and pull open the
compartment containing the gas cap, then the words of your father come to you saying that you’d better prime the pump first if you expect to start such a large
car with such a small amount of gasoline. So you listen to the voice and pop the hood and remove the butterfly nut to the metal housing of the air cleaner. And
right in the middle of the air cleaner is the carburetor into which you pour a little gasoline. The carburetor sucks up the nourishment noisily and gratefully and
you run to the rear of the car and pour the remaining gas into the tank. Then you run to the driver’s seat and turn the key. The engine groans and the gas gage
needle doesn’t budge. You turn the key again and the engine turns over. After kissing the steering wheel and thanking everything holy, you drive to the
convenience store and put $10 worth of gas in your car. Hopefully that will be enough to get you home because that’s all you have.
And if it weren’t for priming the pump you’d still be sitting in a cold car on the side of the road as hundreds of cars zipped by taking their owners to work early
on a Monday morning. But how many of us fail to prime our own pumps? Talk about waiting for retirement before pursuing our love for painting. Give up our love
for dancing because we are now past the prime years for dancing professionally. Discard our passion for writing because our great American novel was turned
down by 50 literary agents and as many publishers. It is my guess that this very moment is the best time for jumping head first into the things you love because we
have become quite expert at talking ourselves out of things. The timing is not quite right. The situation is difficult right now so it’s probably best to postpone this
endeavor to a better time. And we watch as one day turns into a week that turns into a month that turns into ten years that mysteriously turn into a lifetime. And
the optimal time never came.
What this all means is that if you love to dance, dance while waiting for the elevator. If you love to sing, sing loudly in and out of the shower. No. Your
shower is not Carnegie Hall, but it is your singing that matters because singing is special to you which means that it is special to others — if for no other reason
than their enjoyment of your obvious and unadulterated passion for singing because your passion will forcefully and good-naturedly demand that they rediscover
and exercise theirs. If you love to write, take joy in writing meeting minutes, shopping lists and — if you’re very lucky — regular columns for The Capital City Hues.
Maybe your column will be syndicated some day. Maybe not. Maybe your words will end up on the desk of an editor of The New Yorker Magazine, or this may
never happen. The important thing — no, the critical thing — is that we nurture the things we love with love and attention and priming the pump is a way to feed
our essence. A way to keep flowing with small rivers on their way to the ocean. A way to add our small gifts to infinite bounty of the universe.