My summer days were marked by warm gulf breezes sliding under billowing cumulus clouds. Breezes that blew over freshly cut fields of cane hay drying in the shimmering heat of a sunny July afternoon. While curing before bailing, the crushed stems gave off a scent that made me hungry for its sweetness. It was not unusual to find me chewing on a freshly cut stalk as I wandered those fields enjoying the vibrant world around me.
The breezes also carried sounds of cattle lowing at their calves, keeping them from wandering too far afield. Mixed in as well, were the piping, brassy whistles of male Bob White Quail in the frenzy of their mating cycle. That summons was returned by the short, plaintive chirps of the hens. It was common to observe two or three of these small, fierce cocks descend on a lady to compete vigorously for her favor. Aggressive posturing and open combat were often the direct result of these confrontations.
I quickly learned to imitate the calls of both the cocks and hens and was able to call in a hen or a couple of frantic males who, upon seeing each other, would charge into fierce battle and seem to forget the fickle damsel that had brought them together in the first place.
Summer temperatures would often top 100 degrees. Air conditioning was still relatively rare in those days. The best way to escape the heat was to go swimming. My friends and I did this as often as possible. There were various ponds scattered on our place as well as on neighboring ranches. They were a necessity for anyone running cattle in the brush country. Dad had a 90 acre pasture he had cleared on the west side of the place we called the lagoon as it was low and would catch and retain water when we had a good rain. After clearing most of the brush, he had a large pond or tank dug out in the lowest spot in the pasture. It was stocked with large mouth bass and catfish. We often camped out and fished on its banks under the dark velvet canopy of a huge Texas sky dusted with stars.
Hurricane Beulah came through and transformed our tank and dam completely. It became a horseshoe shaped island in the middle of roughly half a section of water! The waters surrounding our island ranged from ankle to some six feet in depth. The boggy bottom gave the water a murky grey-brown texture and provided fodder for mud fights of huge proportions. The island became our base of operations through that wonderful lazy summer.
We structured a primitive raft from the ancient sideboard of an abandoned trailer. Flotation was made possible by lashing empty oil drums beneath each end of the vessel. It was a very unstable craft and would overturn with great frequency. This was no real problem as we loved being wet anyway. However, as we learn in life, trouble is always lurking around a dark corner.
An early rendezvous had been called early one Sunday morning. Slipping away from the house, I answered the roster in my church clothes. During the course of the meeting, a short voyage around the island was suggested and agreed upon. Wearing my dress clothes made me a bit hesitant to board, but a vote of all hands present and solemn assurances that great care would be observed overrode my concerns.
Todo, Grant and Buster were already on the deck and I soon joined them. The morning was beautiful. Several trees rose mutely from the surface, maintaining a lonely vigil over the surrounding waters. These reflected in the rippling, golden light of the newly risen sun dancing on its surface.
As we poled the raft through the glassy surface, a water moccasin glided across the bow with a graceful see-sawing motion, leaving a delicate rippling wake in its path. Buster rose from his kneeling position on the deck with a look of open wonder on his face. He extended his right arm, right hand and index finger shaking furiously, and shouted "Look," loud enough to raise the dead.
I noticed the even line of the horizon begin to shift. When it was closing on a forty-five degree angle, I realized that all hands had abandoned ship. As the raft continued to tilt, I sensed that she would soon complete her roll. I lunged at a nearby tree limb in a frantic, hopeless effort to stay dry.
I caught that limb and hung on for dear life! Within a few seconds my fingers were going numb and I realized that my legs were submerged to my knees. Resigned that there was no escape, I released my hold and slid beneath the surface to join my friends.
We caroused and played shamelessly for twenty minutes or so before the reality of my situation really set in. Emerging from the water, filled with remorse, I chastised Buster. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. After all, he said fate had sent the snake to us and who could argue with fate?
I tried to be truly repentant in church that sultry Sunday morning. I knew that my mother's limits of patience had been severely tested once again. An occasional drop of sweat rolled down my neck into my collar. Hot air in the sanctuary recirculated around us through the constant hum of a large upright electric fan placed in the rear of the room. I noticed that folks smelled different in church clothes than they did in everyday ones, and I smiled at the memories of earlier that morning as the sermon droned on.
I recall the pastor saying, "The young pine knows the secrets of the ground. The old pine knows the stars." I retain no real memories of the rest of the sermon, but for some reason those words hung into me. I have thought of them from time to time over the years. I'm now long past those days of shuffling around with my hands crammed in my pockets and my shirt tail half out.
Reflecting on them now, I sometimes feel the reverse is true, at least where humans are concerned. As a boy, my child's eye would let me reach up, gathering in armfuls of those stars to sift through my fingers. That trick's not as easy to pull off as it once was.
I may not have known redemption that sultry Sunday morning, but there was an aura of contentment with me on that hard oak pew. Keeping it company was my mother's reproving glance, an occasional lopsided grin of my father's and the faint scent of moss and stagnant mud from the waters surrounding "The Island."
The breezes also carried sounds of cattle lowing at their calves, keeping them from wandering too far afield. Mixed in as well, were the piping, brassy whistles of male Bob White Quail in the frenzy of their mating cycle. That summons was returned by the short, plaintive chirps of the hens. It was common to observe two or three of these small, fierce cocks descend on a lady to compete vigorously for her favor. Aggressive posturing and open combat were often the direct result of these confrontations.
I quickly learned to imitate the calls of both the cocks and hens and was able to call in a hen or a couple of frantic males who, upon seeing each other, would charge into fierce battle and seem to forget the fickle damsel that had brought them together in the first place.
Summer temperatures would often top 100 degrees. Air conditioning was still relatively rare in those days. The best way to escape the heat was to go swimming. My friends and I did this as often as possible. There were various ponds scattered on our place as well as on neighboring ranches. They were a necessity for anyone running cattle in the brush country. Dad had a 90 acre pasture he had cleared on the west side of the place we called the lagoon as it was low and would catch and retain water when we had a good rain. After clearing most of the brush, he had a large pond or tank dug out in the lowest spot in the pasture. It was stocked with large mouth bass and catfish. We often camped out and fished on its banks under the dark velvet canopy of a huge Texas sky dusted with stars.
Hurricane Beulah came through and transformed our tank and dam completely. It became a horseshoe shaped island in the middle of roughly half a section of water! The waters surrounding our island ranged from ankle to some six feet in depth. The boggy bottom gave the water a murky grey-brown texture and provided fodder for mud fights of huge proportions. The island became our base of operations through that wonderful lazy summer.
We structured a primitive raft from the ancient sideboard of an abandoned trailer. Flotation was made possible by lashing empty oil drums beneath each end of the vessel. It was a very unstable craft and would overturn with great frequency. This was no real problem as we loved being wet anyway. However, as we learn in life, trouble is always lurking around a dark corner.
An early rendezvous had been called early one Sunday morning. Slipping away from the house, I answered the roster in my church clothes. During the course of the meeting, a short voyage around the island was suggested and agreed upon. Wearing my dress clothes made me a bit hesitant to board, but a vote of all hands present and solemn assurances that great care would be observed overrode my concerns.
Todo, Grant and Buster were already on the deck and I soon joined them. The morning was beautiful. Several trees rose mutely from the surface, maintaining a lonely vigil over the surrounding waters. These reflected in the rippling, golden light of the newly risen sun dancing on its surface.
As we poled the raft through the glassy surface, a water moccasin glided across the bow with a graceful see-sawing motion, leaving a delicate rippling wake in its path. Buster rose from his kneeling position on the deck with a look of open wonder on his face. He extended his right arm, right hand and index finger shaking furiously, and shouted "Look," loud enough to raise the dead.
I noticed the even line of the horizon begin to shift. When it was closing on a forty-five degree angle, I realized that all hands had abandoned ship. As the raft continued to tilt, I sensed that she would soon complete her roll. I lunged at a nearby tree limb in a frantic, hopeless effort to stay dry.
I caught that limb and hung on for dear life! Within a few seconds my fingers were going numb and I realized that my legs were submerged to my knees. Resigned that there was no escape, I released my hold and slid beneath the surface to join my friends.
We caroused and played shamelessly for twenty minutes or so before the reality of my situation really set in. Emerging from the water, filled with remorse, I chastised Buster. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. After all, he said fate had sent the snake to us and who could argue with fate?
I tried to be truly repentant in church that sultry Sunday morning. I knew that my mother's limits of patience had been severely tested once again. An occasional drop of sweat rolled down my neck into my collar. Hot air in the sanctuary recirculated around us through the constant hum of a large upright electric fan placed in the rear of the room. I noticed that folks smelled different in church clothes than they did in everyday ones, and I smiled at the memories of earlier that morning as the sermon droned on.
I recall the pastor saying, "The young pine knows the secrets of the ground. The old pine knows the stars." I retain no real memories of the rest of the sermon, but for some reason those words hung into me. I have thought of them from time to time over the years. I'm now long past those days of shuffling around with my hands crammed in my pockets and my shirt tail half out.
Reflecting on them now, I sometimes feel the reverse is true, at least where humans are concerned. As a boy, my child's eye would let me reach up, gathering in armfuls of those stars to sift through my fingers. That trick's not as easy to pull off as it once was.
I may not have known redemption that sultry Sunday morning, but there was an aura of contentment with me on that hard oak pew. Keeping it company was my mother's reproving glance, an occasional lopsided grin of my father's and the faint scent of moss and stagnant mud from the waters surrounding "The Island."
1 comment:
O Bill,
However much I enjoyed
"The Dutchman", I am more a fan of "The Island." It reminds me of
a chapter right out of
"Tom Sauyer" but better because it's about someone I know.
Looking forward to more
"From banked Fires"
Debra
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