Every now and then something happens sparking conversations that send me spiraling back to memories from my childhood. Back in the day very few people had swimming pools in their backyards. But everyone who lived out in the country had a favorite swimming hole in either a nearby creek or a winding river.
The creek out by our home was actually a river. But it was a mere creek off Hwy 16 with its cold murky waters easing from beneath the hanging birch trees to reveal a wide sandbar and then meandering on back into the thicket.
This was the Tchefuncte River. But some clever kid had spray painted out all the parts of the road sign, leaving it with just "Fun" River. And that is what I would call it as a child, stopping off at the country store to grab a frozen Redbird popsicle, and then heading on down with old tennis shoes on my feet to wade into those ice-cold waters on a sweltering summer day.
There was no such thing as swimming shoes back in those days, or at least not out in the country. But everyone had an old pair of cloth sneakers that would protect the bottom of their feet from any glass or metal which may have been carried along. I remember well the faint smell of fish and the occasional bite of one on my leg as I splashed and floated in the shallow creek.
On days when there was more time to block off for a good swim, our father would pack us up to go down to the Bogue Chitto River. Back in the 70's seatbelts were not a thought because we were piled up in the back of an old pickup truck sitting wedged down by the ice chest and picnic basket, once again wearing those "swimming shoes."
It was important to head out by at least lunchtime because by the time midafternoon came, dark clouds would begin to form across the horizon as thunderheads bubbled up to bring lightning and rain.
There was no cold like the cold of a river on a hot summer day when the bright sun reflected off the moving waters.
Our father, having been a lifeguard in Florida for a stint in his teenage years, was adamant about knowing and understanding the water. My brother who was five years older could have free reign, but as a child I was given a designated area in swift shallow water that was usually a side detour the river made, cutting out a three-foot-deep spot that housed tiny tadpoles. I would spend my time catching them in my empty Coke bottle and then pouring them out.
Our father explained the swift parts of the river being the shallow parts and the pockets that seemed to not be moving at all were the deep spots that carried a strong undertow and possible snagged logs. My brother was never allowed to dive under in those spots and was told to float with the river to the edge and walk back up to keep from developing a cramp trying to swim against the strong current. And we could not spend this day on the river if it were too low or too high because that changed all the rules. If the river was just right, then back into the pickup we would jump, and memories etched into our minds of another sweet day in childhood.
By the time I was old enough to get to swim in the entirety of that river, we no longer made the picnic trips. My brother had joined the military, and I was far more inclined to hang out at the local town swimming pool creating even more summer memories that entailed boys and giggles and a high diving board.
Both summers were well spent but, funny, the feel of a clear chlorine pool just does not hit home like those brown swirling waters passing through from lands unknown as rumbles of a summer storm built on the horizon.
