The Fountain Of Futility

Everyone knows about Ponce de Leon and his fruitless search for the Fountain of Youth. The elusive spring was reputed to exist somewhere in the humid wilderness of Florida, hidden amid the mosquitoes and manatees. Today it might please a cynic to know that Florida boasts the most ample agglomeration of senior citizenry in all the fifty states. Like Ponce de Leon, they’ve sought but haven’t found. They continue to grow wrinkled and infirm as they slow-cook themselves in the subtropical sun. 

I feel compelled to report that I’ve discovered a remarkable fountain in Pennsylvania, one that could attain equally mythic status down through the ages. This fountain isn’t based on fable or hearsay; it actually exists. In fact, it exists in my own yard. Let me tell you about it.

When Anne and I bought our century-old converted stable in Philadelphia last year, it was the garden as much as the horse-house that charmed us into the reckless business of taking on a thirty-year mortgage. Our domicile faces the street end-on, in the manner of an antebellum Charleston single-house, while the garden runs alongside the house from front to back. An old stone wall topped by a wooden stockade fence hugs the outer edge of the garden along its entire length, creating an incomparable sense of sanctuary within our grounds (all one-eighth acre of them).

Midway down the length of the wall, one of our predecessors had graciously carved a fountain into the stonework: a basin at the upper level presumably spilled its contents into the larger basin below. I say ‘presumably’ because the fountain had fallen into disuse and lay thickly covered in dead leaves. Anne and I loved the fountain and longed to restore it to life. We wanted to see the water splash onto the head of the old stone frog that reclined contentedly on the platform between the upper and lower levels. We wanted to hear the melodious sound of water trickling in our garden on soft summer evenings. So I set to work.

I bought a new pump -- the old one must have dated back to the Truman administration -- and eventually figured out how to connect the tubing. I stopped the drain with a cork of the proper diameter, then proceeded to fill the lower basin with fresh Philadelphia tap water. Now for the moment of destiny: I plugged the pump into the convenient nearby outlet and watched the upper basin fill with water miraculously pumped from below. The upper basin filled to the brim; the water inched its way to the edge of the lip directly above the stone frog, hesitated for a moment, then hurtled over the precipice onto the head of the unsuspecting amphibian. Our fountain was in business. 

Delighted to have made such a direct and improbable impact on my environment, I basked in a state of borderline euphoria for the rest of the day. Anne and I could hear the trickle of the fountain from our second-story bedroom, and that night we slept the sleep of contented souls.

Early the next morning I walked outside to inspect my handiwork. What I discovered distressed me. The water level in the lower basin had dropped at least fifty percent overnight, a development that didn’t bode well for the immediate future of this particular fountain. By the next morning only a puddle remained. I shut off the pump, drained the remaining water and prodded the bottom of the fountain like a dental hygienist in search of cavities. I found a number of suspicious nooks and crannies, which I promptly filled with a waterproof cement compound from the local hardware store. 

I ran the fountain again; again it lost water overnight. This time I sprayed the inside of both basins -- upper and lower -- with a potent water sealant. (To judge from the dire warnings about inhaling and/or ingesting this petroleum-based substance, I figured it had to be even more effective than bubble gum.) As I refilled the lower basin, I noted with satisfaction that water seemed to be beading on the surface. I let the fountain run and it looked glorious. This time it took nearly five days for the water to disappear.

I began to wonder if Frieda, our German shepherd, had been slurping the contents of the fountain on the sly. Maybe a family of bibulous raccoons had been guzzling from it while we slept. But still I suspected structural failure. Whatever the cause, this was war. Surely I could impose my will over an aging stone fountain; my manly ingenuity would prevail. I slathered more patching compound over a few cracks and peepholes that I had somehow missed before. Then I coated the basins with more water sealant. I felt inordinately pleased with myself. I had subdued my environment like an Oklahoma homesteader and was ready to reap the harvest. Finally I switched the pump back on and watched the water trickle onto the smiling frog once again.

This time the gods didn't grant me more than a minute to enjoy my feat. The fountain promptly sprang a leak from the stones at the front of the lower basin. With the water still dribbling out, I grabbed the patching compound, stirred it up with the first stick I could find and shoved it into the cracks. I began to use my hands: a plug of gray goop here, another plug there. Contained at last! But now the water started welling up from the GROUND at the base of the fountain. It would not submit to my will. This fountain WANTED to leak, it would INSIST on leaking, and it would CONTINUE to leak despite all my efforts to vanquish its rebellious propensities. 

I was dealing with a malevolent fountain here. It would appear to cooperate just often enough to encourage me, then foil me with the heartless panache of Lucy snatching the football away from Charlie Brown. Its one desire on earth was to vex me. It would lose water again and again, and I would try to patch it again and again. The fountain would come to symbolize all the fabulous futilities of earthly existence -- the stock market, the rat race, diets, artistic aspirations, housecleaning, the struggle against baldness, the postponement of old age and its bony successor -- until Sisyphus himself would yield his place as the supreme symbol of hope and effort repeatedly come to naught. The Fountain of Futility is real, and it continues to mock all human enterprise.

As soon as I finish this piece, I’m planning yet another assault on the Fountain of Futility. I’ve assembled an arsenal of grim-looking tools and supplies. Anne is growing concerned. And what if the fountain STILL loses water after my next offensive? Then I’ll coat its stony innards with plastic, with rubber, with titanium if necessary. And what if it loses water yet again? Then I’ll have to become a born-again Taoist so I can peacefully accept the vanity of human effort, even embrace the wisdom of a fountain that won’t yield to sweaty aggression. But first I’d get rid of the stone frog. Its smile is beginning to irritate me.

Cynic's Pick of the Week

How low will it go? As investors bail out of the sinking stock market, our only consolation is that the big-time executives, investment bankers and financial analysts might be losing even more than we are. Why, some of them might have to stop dreaming about a Lamborghini and settle for a Mercedes -- one for each member of the family, of course.