They don’t make creeks like they used to. I speak of Buck Creek. To narrow the search for the creek I am speaking of I direct your attention to the county road between Stonewall and Owl Creek. Just north of the city limits on this fairly insignificant stretch of road this little creek crosses. If you were to park and look over the edge you could see it. Buck Creek. In summertime it is a small trickling stream of water winding its way through the Poison Ivy and Water Moccasins as it cuts its way through a jungle of green jungle-like undergrowth.

If one traveled East about 600 feet upstream on this little creek you would find something called Sandy Bend. This little hidden gem made for a good swimming hole. The creek made a 180 degree turn at this picturesque point and was a perfect little place. Buck Creek owed its summer flow of water to a group of clear-cold-flowing artesian wells in and around Union Valley—about 4 miles East. As a matter of fact, after the spring rains stopped, they were its only source of water. Sandy Bend was known to local boys as a good swimming hole. Deep enough to dive into and its waters got pretty clean and pure after the spring rains ended.

Snakes? Of course, but Slim Hamilton assured us all that snakes can’t bite if you’re underwater. In fact, he went on, they won’t bite you on the bank either unless you pick them up. We believed him. And none of us were ever bitten. But one week in July of the year concerning this story, it came a monsoon. It rained hard for a week or so and Buck Creek was in flood stage. The word spread and pretty soon a half dozen of us were on our bikes, heading north toward Owl Creek and our beloved swimming hole. By the time we arrived the flooding creek looked like an amusement park to us.

We quickly decided the current was too swift for a normal swim and we decided to walk upstream to the railroad bridge, jump in and enjoy an express ride back down the creek to our Sandy Bend. The 180-degree bend would allow the creek to spit us out on the South shore of Sandy Bend. A place we knew well. Slim Hamilton was there and in prominence, as usual. I warned him when the creek goes into the bend swim to your right. Don’t let the current take you any further. There’s a big pile of trees in the creek just downstream. We undressed and left our clothes at the Bend and walked the trail up to the railroad bridge. I don’t think any of us owned a bathing suit.

Sure enough, the swift and exciting ride down Buck Creek was perfect and exciting. When I reached the Sandy Bend I swam toward our beach and sure enough the creek disgorged me out onto the sand. I looked back. Here came the others and coming in last was Slim. Naturally he stayed on the left side of the stream and shot by all of us like a rocket and as we watched he disappeared into the big brush pile. We raced down and found his body entangled in the limbs, underwater, and we finally dragged him out and onto the muddy bank. I was pretty sure Slim was dead. But I was wrong. He was scratched up and bloody and he was not breathing. Like good scouts, we did “artificial resuscitation” on him. He finally went to breathing but was unable to talk or stand up.

Another complication. Slim was naked. No way he could ride his bike either. After some masterful thinking we decided to retrieve our clothes, get dressed and dress poor old muddy Slim. In that order. Boy. That was a chore. And it was a worse chore walking him that long mile home to his mama. Mrs. Hamilton was surprised, and boy did she get mad. She took him to the doctor, and he got OK after a few days. I didn’t go visit Slim for a while. I was scared of his mama. She had already had an unwelcome visit with my mom. And I think that was the last time I ever swam at Sandy Bend too. Who knew?

I hope all of you can find your way to church Sunday. And yes, I enjoy hearing from you.

Wayne Bullard, DPh Cwaynebullard@gmail. com