Dave wanted to learn to milk the cows, so we put a bull in a milking stall and told him that his cow was ready. When Dave sat down on a milking stool beside the bull, the bull looked at Dave with a “what-in-the-world-are-you-doing” look on his face. We laughed so hard even the cows seemed to enjoy the humor. After we told Dave what we had done, he also saw the humor and took it in good spirits. We then gave him a gentle cow to learn to milk. After a few days, he was able to milk the cows, and he was a big help with the milking.
Dave’s next big learning experience was even more humiliating. It involved quicksand. Quicksand isn’t at all what it’s depicted to be in the movies. Winter Creek, which ran through our property, had a lot of quicksand in those days. Quicksand isn’t dangerous if you understand what it is and how it works. We enjoyed playing in it.
Quicksand is nothing but particles of sand held in suspension in quiet water. The particles are so thick that when the top is dry it looks like regular sand. If you don’t know what to look for, you can be fooled and never suspect you’re in quicksand until you find yourself stuck in it. When the surface tension of the water is broken, the sand that is held in suspension quickly drops to the bottom.
If you should accidentally step into quicksand, and don’t recognize what you have done, you could sink, just as though you had stepped into water. But quicksand is denser than water, so if you lay over on your stomach you’ll float, and you can slither out like a snake. If you don’t know how to do that, and if the quicksand is deep, you could be in serious trouble. The danger of quicksand is, if you don’t get out quickly, the sand will settle around you so tightly that unless you know how to get out, you will be trapped and you might drown.
Sunday afternoons were our time to play on the creek. The creeks all had names. The other creeks we lived on were Walnut Creek, Bitter Creek, Spring Creek, and Haystack Creek. The rivers that the creeks ran into were the Washita, North Canadian, South Canadian, Arkansas, Cimarron, and Red River.
The creek that ran through our farm when Dave spent the summer with us was called Winter Creek. Winter Creek drained sandy land with a flat, alluvial plain, and it flooded often. The streambed was sandy, and that’s why there was so much quicksand. The sand filtered the water, leaving it clean and clear, and it was home to an abundant supply of bass, sunfish, perch, and catfish.
Our favorite swimming hole was where the creek ran across a ledge of white limestone, and the resulting waterfall dug a hole in the sand, creating a pond about twenty feet wide and forty feet long—a wonderful swimming hole. Many children learned to swim there.
On this particular Sunday afternoon, we went for a swim. The group consisted of my older brothers Everett and J.D.; my younger brothers Valatus, Reford, and Valton; and Dave and me. We spent the summer wearing shorts. I guess the only thing that kept us from going completely naked was Mother’s strict religious upbringing. I felt sorry for girls. They had to remain covered from head to toe. I thought there must be something really bad about a woman’s anatomy if they have to keep it so secret.
The sun had tanned us until we were the color of copper pennies. The swimming hole was about a mile from our farmhouse, and we were strung out in a line, following cow trails. We were running, walking, laughing, talking, and gathering wild plums as we went. The wind was calm and a summer haze partially hid the hills.
By the time we got to the swimming hole, we were too warm, so we were ready for the nice cool water. We shed our clothes and in we went. Some dove, some jumped, some just splashed in. We frolicked in the pond for about two hours. Soon enough, we had to go home to do our chores, but we were reluctant to get out of the water.
A spot of quicksand had formed just below of the swimming hole, and we loved to play in it. It wasn’t deep. We would sink in it only to our armpits and then we would be standing on a limestone ledge. We liked to wait until the sand settled tightly around us, and then work the water back into the sand, so we could slither out. We knew how, but our visiting companion didn’t. Not a word passed among us—just a look and a nod, and we all knew what we were going to do. We waited until the sand settled around Dave. After a time, the sand had settled so tightly that it was as though he was encased in concrete. If we hadn’t known the proper technique, we couldn’t have gotten him out with a jackhammer.
My brothers and I quietly crawled out of the quicksand, not saying a word about how we were doing it, jumped into the clean water, washed ourselves off, put on our shorts, and talked about everything except Dave’s problem.
Everett was the oldest, so he called the shots. “Dave, you’d better get out of the quicksand and get dressed. We gotta milk the cows.”
Dave saw us get out with what must have seemed to be no trouble. He struggled and pulled against the sand, but to no avail—he was stuck. He didn’t say anything; he just continued pulling against what had been quicksand but was now nothing but solid, packed sand. We pretended not to notice. Since we were fully dressed, which meant we had our shorts on, we began walking down the creek as though we were going back to the farmhouse. We hadn’t walked far when we heard his plaintive call.
“Hey! I’m caught!”
I’ll never forget that call. We laughed so hard, we could hardly stand. Poor Dave realized he had been the butt of a joke. He was encased in sand up to his armpits, helpless as a kitten. We walked back to him, laughing, and he smiled a helpless smile.
We knew how to get him out as we had done it many times, getting animals out of just such a trap. We tromped up and down, all around him, working the water back into the sand. It worked like patting the water back to the surface of a mud cake. After the sand was back into a solution, we slid him out, washed him off, and started home. On the way home, after he had gotten over his embarrassment and saw the humor of the situation, he joined us in a good laugh.
Summer passed, autumn came, and Dave went back to his life in the city. We never saw or heard from him again. I’ve often wondered what happened to him. Naoma said that he had really enjoyed his summer, but I guess he wasn’t much of a letter writer. I would sure like to hear some of the stories he tells his grandchildren.
THE LESSON
Our farm on Winter Creek was about seven miles north of a small farming community called Alex, with a population of maybe two hundred people. Alex had the usual businesses of most small farming towns—a grain terminal, cotton gin, farm implement store, repair station, and general store. And of course there was a women’s clothing store; also a pool hall for the men and a park and playground for the children.
Alex had family-style restaurants where hamburgers and milkshakes were the most common foods served. The hamburgers were made with the highest quality meat, and the milkshakes were made with the best ice creams available. The farmers knew the difference and demanded the very best. On Main Street was a movie theater where the high school kids went on dates.
The town was in the valley of the Washita River. Flooding was so common that most of the buildings were built on piles above elevated wood sidewalks. The sidewalks were about two feet off the ground, leaving plenty of room for dogs, cats and drunks.
A one-armed constable who carried a long-barreled pistol, kept the peace. He was a likeable guy unless a firm hand was required—then he was a tough hombre. He could—and did—deal with problems with whatever degree of force was required.
***
It had been raining for days. Everett, J.D., and I, with two of our friends, were itching to go to town, shoot some pool, and go to the movies. It didn’t matter what was showing. It was always a single feature, and we sat through it twice in case we missed something the first time. Then we’d go to the Bon Ton Café to get a hamburger and a strawberry milkshake, maybe a piece of pecan pie.
The creeks and the river were flooded. Dad didn’t want us to ride the horses for fear we would hurt them swimming across the river, in case there were drifting logs. We were determined to go into town so the only thing left for us to do was to walk the seven mi
les and swim the flooded creeks and river. Dad didn’t worry about our swimming the flooded streams—he knew that crossing flooded streams would present no difficulty for a bunch of teenage boys.
We’d simply find a floating log, hold on to it, kick our way across, then walk on to the next stream, and do it again. Of course, we had to take off our clothes each time. We didn’t wear shoes, so that presented no problem. We knew our clothes were going to be a mess by the time we got to town, but the merchants didn’t mind. We were customers at a time when there were only a few people making their way into town. Our biggest concern was crossing the Washita River.
The water in the Washita wasn’t high enough to flood the town, but it was high enough to make it too dangerous to cross the bridge. The bridge was built up above the level of the valley, but the valley was flooded on both sides of the bridge. The log we chose for floating on was good, maybe a little too good. The river carried us more than a mile downstream, and we had a terrible time making our way back to the road that led into town.
We went straight to the pool hall. The pool hall was strictly for men. We weren’t men yet, but we did men’s work, so we were accepted without question.
Farmers and ranchers sat at tables, playing dominos. They played a game called “21” and wagered small amounts of money. The game was more for recreation than for gambling.
We liked to shoot pool. The more skilled players played snooker and made small wagers, but we weren’t that good.
Pool cost five cents per player, and with four players at each of the tables, the house made twenty cents per game. The pool hall had six tables, and the proprietor also sold a watered-down version of beer.
Two men playing at a table near us got into an argument. They had both been drinking, and they got louder and louder until finally the owner came over and tried to quiet them down. He was having no luck, and it was obvious that a fight was about to begin.
The owner called for the one-armed constable, who came right away and tried to quiet the quarreling men. They gave him a bad time, and with only one arm, he couldn’t keep them both under control, so he pulled out his pistol and banged one over the head, dragged him out of the pool hall, rolled him under the elevated sidewalk, and then took the other one to the jail. The jukebox in the pool hall was playing the song, “Walking the Floor over You.” People were walking on the elevated sidewalk—over the man lying under it. We stood in the street, laughing. When the constable came back for his second prisoner, he, too, saw the humor and joined us in a good laugh.
***
For about fifty cents each, we had a big night on the town. When we worked for hire, we earned about ten cents an hour. Fifty cents in those days was a lot of money, equivalent to about forty dollars today. We played three games of pool for fifteen cents, and then we went to the movie for a dime. A hamburger and a milkshake cost five cents each, and we had money left over for a “big-little-book.” The book was square—four inches long, four inches wide, and four inches thick. It was the forerunners of the comic book.
By the time we were done with our big night on the town, it was about ten o’clock. We were supposed to be home by midnight, but there was no way we could make it. We figured we were going to catch hell when we got home, but there was nothing we could do about it, so we started the long trek home. It wasn’t raining, but there was still a heavy overcast—no moon, no stars. The night was black. That presented a real problem when we had to swim across the flooded streams. Should one of us get into trouble, we had to let the others know. There was safety in numbers, but it was so dark that we had to remain close together to stay in contact.
The Washita was the biggest stream we had to cross. We walked about three-quarters of a mile upstream before entering the water, so that the moving water would carry us down to the road on the other side…And it worked! We crawled out of the river just upstream from the road. So far, so good, but we still had six miles to go and more streams to cross. It was getting late, and we were getting tired.
No one said a word. We just plodded along in silence. Mile after mile we walked, crossing stream after stream. Finally, we came crawling out on the north bank of Winter Creek. About three-quarters of a mile from the farm house, we saw a glow where the sun was rising clear, indicating that the storm had passed. Any other time it would have been a beautiful sight, but we were too tired to care.
As we walked across the porch, heading for our beds, we heard Father say, “It’s too late to go to bed; the cows have got to be milked.”
Them damn cows! I vowed that one day I would find a better way to make a living than by pulling the teats of a bunch of cows.
But there was no need to grumble. The only thing to do was to milk the cows. After the cows were milked, the milk had to be processed, the other animals fed, and the barn cleaned and made ready for the evening milking. By the time we completed the morning chores, Mother had breakfast ready. We were nearly too tired even to eat. I could hardly wait to get to that bed.
When we started for the beds, Dad said, “Come on, boys, we’ve got to cut wood today. We’ve got to lay up a supply of firewood for winter.”
It was Sunday! It was June! We never worked on Sunday, other than tending the animals. The creek was flooded—we couldn’t even get to the damn trees to cut them. I knew what was happening, though. Dad hadn’t said a cross word about how late we had gotten home. Cutting wood was his way of administering punishment.
“That’s the wood we’ll cut for firewood,” Dad said, pointing to a stand of willows growing near a spring on the hillside, about a mile from the farmhouse.
The day was hot and humid. Willow is the sorriest wood possible for burning in the stove or fireplace. Had the old man flipped his lid?
No, he knew exactly what he was doing. We worked all day cutting that sorry wood.
When the sun finally went down, Dad said, “Okay, boys, we’d better go milk the cows.”
I’d like to shoot every damn cow on the farm! About ten o’clock that evening, we had the animals tended, the cows milked, the milk taken care of, and finally, we ate supper. By this time, I was wondering if I could make it to the bed. I don’t even remember my head hitting the pillow.
That was the most effective disciplinary action I ever experienced, and it taught me a lesson I’ll never forget.
THE FLOOD AND THE WAR
In the winter of 1938, we moved to a farm on Winter Creek. It was a beautiful farm with fertile creek-bottom land. The land was on a flat alluvial plain bordering Winter Creak. It was highly fertile and desirable. Father anticipated some good crops because, at last, he had good land. He plowed the fields and planted corn and cotton. The seeds sprouted and the fields were beautiful.
Then the rain came. It rained and rained. The water in the creek began to rise. The rain continued, harder and harder. Soon the water overflowed the banks and ran across the newly planted fields. The crops were ruined.
There was nothing left to do but wait for the land to dry and replant. But before the fields could be replanted, the land had to be made ready again. The flood water had eroded gullies across the fields that had to be filled, and the good soil was covered with silt. It was hard, discouraging, time-consuming, and expensive work. Dad had to borrow money to buy new seeds. Replanting would make the crops mature late, and the crops would not be as good, and the revenue lower, but he had no choice.
After days of hard work the land was ready and the seeds planted. The fields looked pretty good, but not as good as the first time. We were relieved that at least we would have a crop and that we would get some income from the land. To labor for a full year and receive nothing for your labor is terrible.
But again the rains came, and again the fields flooded and ruined the crops. This time, it was too late to replant. A year’s labor was lost. Dad was discouraged and angry. He became hard to get along with. To my father, the only emotion a man was allowed to show was anger. There was more than the usual quarreling between Mother and Da
d. Our home was an unhappy place. Going to school was a respite, but only temporary.
Our only source of food was from our garden, which was on high ground—the floods hadn’t destroyed it. We got milk, butter, eggs, and meat from our animals. From the creek we caught fish and from along the creek banks we picked wild fruit.
With no crops to harvest, you would think there would be less work. Not so. Wood had to be cut for heating and cooking, and animals had to be tended with even greater care because we needed them for food.
The following year was a repeat of the one that preceded it. Again, after the crops were planted, the rains came, bringing flooding and devastation. The flooding continued: Five floods, one after the other, destroyed the crops and ravaged the land. Father was financially ruined. He had mortgaged the farm to rebuild his land and replant the crops. Since we produced nothing, we had no income, and therefore no way to pay the mortgage. There was nothing left to do but sell everything to pay off the loans.
So, on a cold winter day in December of 1941, we held an auction. The farm, along with everything we owned—even the furniture—went to the highest bidder. To lose the farm was bad enough, but having to sell the animals was even worse. They had become almost like members of the family—especially the horses. That was a sad, sad day.
I was given the task of providing hot coffee for the people who attended the auction. Mother had a big iron kettle in which she heated water for washing clothes. The kettle held about twenty gallons of water. I filled it, built a fire under it, and brought the water to a boil. I got a can of coffee and dumped it into that boiling water. Then I reduced the fire to just keep the coffee simmering. The coffee grounds settled to the bottom, and we had the best coffee anyone had ever tasted.
Brief Moment in Time Page 8