Bucket Crank

Bright afternoon sun cut straight across the brick wellhouse. Right on the weathered timber ledge sat an old cast-iron winch handle! No standing around. I scrambled up the cedar shingle siding, planted both sneakers on the crossbeam, and grabbed the iron crank. Heavy metal, totally unyielding. I leaned my whole body forward, putting my weight into one sharp downward push. SQUEAK! The crank gave an inch, and the braided hemp rope tautened over the wooden axle below with a deep thrum. Head tilted sideways, I gave the handle a brisk slap. Heavy machinery, officially shifted.