It is weird, but today I have been thinking about Spring Creek. When I was a kid, Spring Creek was a refuge, a haven, a natural and God given Disney World. Not that there was much to it. It is a rather small, meandering creek that winds its way through Rapides Parish. It begins near Otis and eventually dumps into Cocodrie Lake.
Growing up I experienced summer days that even those "acclimated" to the heat found unbearable. The temperature would be in the mid to upper 90's and the humidity would have joined it. The air was still and so was everything else. The cows would be lying under shade trees chewing their cuds. Dogs would seek the shelter of the porch or carport and do little more than pant. I have seen cats do the same. Even the crickets would quiet down on those oppressive days. We had no air conditioning. It seemed hard to draw your breath and no one felt like doing anything.
On those miserable days we found relief in Spring Creek. Big Bend, the Tilly Hole, Hogans Hole - all were delightful swimming holes located in Spring Creek. Before my brother could drive, we would try to convince my grandfather Jimmy to take us. He had a 1961 white GMC long wheel base truck that he used to peddle fruit (and various other commodities). It was just right for carrying a load of boys to the Creek. We would pile in about 1 or 2 in the afternoon. All of us would be wearing cut off blue jeans (NO ONE wore a bathing suit that I ever remember other than the cut-offs). Our mothers would not allow us to swim too soon after eating dinner (which was served at noon where I grew up). "You swim too soon after eating and you will get stomach cramps and sink to the bottom of Spring Creek" is what they told us. Grandpa was good to take us and often would roll out a blanket on the creek bank and go to sleep. It is impossible to describe the feeling of swinging from a rope off the bank of the creek and letting go. In the moment it takes to fall into the creek you thought about what was coming. The shock is unbelievable. Looking back, I am surprised it did not kill us all. There were those folks who climbed into the creek an inch at a time. I thought that was torture. By letting go of the rope, I knew that there was no turning back. I went for the total immersion method of entering the ice cold water. It always felt like I was having a heart attack. The shock from the coldness of the spring fed creek literally would suck the air out of your lungs. But, oh, it made you feel like you were resurrecting from the dead. A sense of exhilaration would explode through you. Often you would rise to the surface of the water and let out a woop of joy.
We would spend the afternoon swimming, jumping off the rope, wrestling, splashing, dunking, playing games, hiding from the scorching heat. The temperature always seemed cooler down by the creek. I can remember shivering from the cold of the creek when riding home in the back of Grandpa's truck. We all looked like prunes from being in the water so long. I also remember that wonderful feeling of being so tired and sunburned and hungry from an afternoon at the creek. I have heard it said that there is a "good" tired. This was it.
Perhaps those afternoons have become idyllic with the passing of time. Maybe I have exaggerated in my mind how good they were. The fall of man invaded those places. Sometimes we would get into fights, there were mosquitoes and the occasional water moccasin with which to deal. And yet, there was something wonderful about those long, hot, lazy afternoons spent immersing ourselves in Spring Creek. There is no going back. Some of those swimming holes are filled in. None of them seem as large as I remember them. But, every now and then, when I visit them, in the whisper of the hot summer wind I can hear the voices of boys delighting in the simple pleasure of cold water on a hot day.
Growing up I experienced summer days that even those "acclimated" to the heat found unbearable. The temperature would be in the mid to upper 90's and the humidity would have joined it. The air was still and so was everything else. The cows would be lying under shade trees chewing their cuds. Dogs would seek the shelter of the porch or carport and do little more than pant. I have seen cats do the same. Even the crickets would quiet down on those oppressive days. We had no air conditioning. It seemed hard to draw your breath and no one felt like doing anything.
On those miserable days we found relief in Spring Creek. Big Bend, the Tilly Hole, Hogans Hole - all were delightful swimming holes located in Spring Creek. Before my brother could drive, we would try to convince my grandfather Jimmy to take us. He had a 1961 white GMC long wheel base truck that he used to peddle fruit (and various other commodities). It was just right for carrying a load of boys to the Creek. We would pile in about 1 or 2 in the afternoon. All of us would be wearing cut off blue jeans (NO ONE wore a bathing suit that I ever remember other than the cut-offs). Our mothers would not allow us to swim too soon after eating dinner (which was served at noon where I grew up). "You swim too soon after eating and you will get stomach cramps and sink to the bottom of Spring Creek" is what they told us. Grandpa was good to take us and often would roll out a blanket on the creek bank and go to sleep. It is impossible to describe the feeling of swinging from a rope off the bank of the creek and letting go. In the moment it takes to fall into the creek you thought about what was coming. The shock is unbelievable. Looking back, I am surprised it did not kill us all. There were those folks who climbed into the creek an inch at a time. I thought that was torture. By letting go of the rope, I knew that there was no turning back. I went for the total immersion method of entering the ice cold water. It always felt like I was having a heart attack. The shock from the coldness of the spring fed creek literally would suck the air out of your lungs. But, oh, it made you feel like you were resurrecting from the dead. A sense of exhilaration would explode through you. Often you would rise to the surface of the water and let out a woop of joy.
We would spend the afternoon swimming, jumping off the rope, wrestling, splashing, dunking, playing games, hiding from the scorching heat. The temperature always seemed cooler down by the creek. I can remember shivering from the cold of the creek when riding home in the back of Grandpa's truck. We all looked like prunes from being in the water so long. I also remember that wonderful feeling of being so tired and sunburned and hungry from an afternoon at the creek. I have heard it said that there is a "good" tired. This was it.
Perhaps those afternoons have become idyllic with the passing of time. Maybe I have exaggerated in my mind how good they were. The fall of man invaded those places. Sometimes we would get into fights, there were mosquitoes and the occasional water moccasin with which to deal. And yet, there was something wonderful about those long, hot, lazy afternoons spent immersing ourselves in Spring Creek. There is no going back. Some of those swimming holes are filled in. None of them seem as large as I remember them. But, every now and then, when I visit them, in the whisper of the hot summer wind I can hear the voices of boys delighting in the simple pleasure of cold water on a hot day.
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