Guy Wheatley
The Texarkana Gazette
I remember the sounds of locusts in the late summer afternoons. June
through August in the early 70s always brought the sounds of locusts in
the late evening. My mind carries images of large lawns, giant trees and
a sinking sun.
Usually long grass is not appreciated in the rice country of southeast
Arkansas. Mosquitoes like it too much. The grass is usually clipped as
short as the mower will go, and by mid-July it is thin and brown. The faintly
sweet smell of dry grass also is part of the mental snapshot I carry from
those days.
Summers were longer back then. We got all of June, July and most of
August off from school. I can't remember what I did with most of the time.
I've got fragmentary images of falling, or being pushed, into the creek
by one of my friends.
The creek was called "Rocky Bottom." It carried that name since my
father's time, but I have no idea who came up with it. As best as I can
tell, there's not a rock within 100 miles of Rocky Bottom. It was a muddy
flood ditch that ran through the woods behind my house. It was close enough
that we could get there in a few minutes, but far enough away from adults
to be attractive. In our imaginations, the muddy banks of Rocky Bottom
were somewhere deep in the Amazon.
The Amazon illusion didn't take a lot of imagination. This is hardwood
bottomland. From March to April, half of it is likely to be under water.
The trees are mostly tightly packed cottonwoods with a few pecans, gums
and oaks thrown in. The ground is covered in a tangle of dead limbs. Grape
and muscadine vines are everywhere. You have to hack a trail through the
breaks to get anywhere.
The largest part of our domain was on the other side of the creek from
my house. The usual method for crossing was to swing across on a grapevine.
Other times you could find where a tree had fallen across and use it. We
even built a bridge one summer, large enough to ride across on a motor
cycle. The next year's flood washed it away and we were back to grapevines
and dead trees.
The summers of my 13th, 14th and 15th years were spent stomping around
those woods with a 22-cal. rifle, a knife and an axe. It's a wonder I'm
here to write about it. We built tree houses and dug tunnels in those woods.
We built one bridge and numerous log cabins from native material. I'm not
sure who owned that land, but he supplied a lot of timber to our projects.
We weren't the first kids to inhabit those woods. We were all related
in some way. Half of the gang was a direct cousin, the other half were
at least cousins of my cousins. I've seen old pictures of my father and
my friend's fathers as kids in the same woods. I just assumed that our
grandfathers had haunted area in their time, and I assumed my descendents
would carry on the tradition.
I was back in my hometown of Gillett a few years ago and decided to
check out Rocky Bottom. I couldn't find the trail into the woods through
the tangle of brush from what had been my back yard. This didn't surprise
me much. I figured the kids now finding adventure in the woods sere simply
coming in from another direction. I knew that as soon as I reached the
creek, I'd find their trails and construction projects. I hoped I might
even bump into one of them. I was sure I'd know the kid's father.
I hacked my way to the creek with a machete without finding an intersecting
trail. When I reached the water I followed it the entire two miles that
stretches through the woods without finding any sign of recent activity.
No trails, no construction projects, no soft drink cans or candy wrappers.
Nothing. I did find the remains of an old campfire. There were old cans
in it, rusted almost to powder. These were steel, not aluminum, and came
from an earlier time. I had moved away, but many of my friends had stayed
and had kids. Where were they?
Heading out of town, I noticed several ball fields where once vacant
lots had stood. They were all full, and appeared to hold the entire population
of Gillett. I've never been much of a sports fan, but I stopped by to see
if I'd find any of my old running buddies. Sure enough I ran into a couple
of guys from the old crowd.
I asked about the new ball fields. They proudly told me about the various
leagues that keep modern kids at practice or in games about every spare
moment. The fields were built with volunteer money and time by the parents.
The kids are under constant supervision every moment. "We didn't have anything
like this when we were kids," one of the guys said.
"Yeah," I thought to myself. "Thank God."
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