Category Archives: True Tales

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Lazy Day Destinations – Mill Creek to “Bubbling Springs”

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Lazy Day Destinations – Mill Creek to “Bubbling Springs”

 James R. Aist

Growing up in rural Arkansas left me with many fond memories of favorite places, especially when it was summer vacation and I could just pick up and go by myself, or with a friend or two, on a hot, lazy summer afternoon.

When I was around 12 years old and my family lived in Evening Shade (the real one, population 315, not the fictional one on the TV sit-com), one of my favorite places was “Joe Rock.” Just across Highway 11 from Evening Shade, and about a ten minute walk down a winding farm road, was Piney Creek, which ran clear in the summer until the dog days of August set in. If you made a right turn when you reached Piney Creek and followed along the creek bank for maybe 150 yards or so, you came to Joe Rock. Now Joe Rock was usually the target destination whenever we followed that path to Piney Creek, because it was a nice, private swimming hole (click HERE). But there were a couple of other favorite places to visit farther down the creek.

If you went down Piney Creek past Joe Rock for another 150 yards or so, then you came to the place where Mill Creek flowed into Piney Creek from the right. Now, Mill Creek was a really, really cold creek, which in the heat of summer felt great, if you darted into its path and then, just as quickly, darted back into the warm waters of Piney Creek. For the longest time we wondered why Mill Creek was so cold; nobody seemed to know. That is, until one day we decided to explore Mill Creek upstream to see if we could find where it came from. To do that, it was necessary to walk along beside the creek, because, after about 30 seconds in that cold water, one’s bare feet began to feel numb! Well, we must have walked a mile or two when we came upon an unexpected, but familiar, sight that explained why the waters of Mill Creek were so cold: A natural wonder that I call “Bubbling Springs” (presently “Evening Shade Town Spring”, now with a spring house – see photo at upper right).

We were already familiar with “Bubbling Springs”, having visited there several times by bicycle or automobile; it was off of Highway 11, just a little south of Evening Shade. But this was the first time that we had connected “Bubbling Springs” with Mill Creek. Now, “Bubbling Springs” was a minor tourist attraction in the immediate area and a favorite place to fill water jugs with naturally chilled drinking water. It was also a fascinating place to play and collect pretty, polished stones. You see, this was no ordinary artesian spring. No, this spring emerged from the ground, over a large area, as dozens of bubbling, crystal-clear springs that shot up 4-8 inches above the water level, pushing up beautiful, highly polished stones along with the water. The stones were kept in a continuous cycle of bubbling up and then falling back into the springs, and then bubbling up again, etc. The sound of all of those stones crashing into one another as they rose and fell in the springs was impressive, to put it mildly. This was nature’s “stone polisher” on steroids! The “floor” of the entire spring area was covered with these very colorful polished stones, and I still have a few of them from my personal collection.

“Bubbling Springs” was always a fascinating place to visit, especially on a hot summer afternoon, when we could enjoy wading around in the chilly, churning “spring field” until our feet were numb. And from that time on, every time we walked down Piney Creek to Mill Creek, we were reminded of “Bubbling Springs”, the amazing — but no longer mysterious — source of its frigid waters.

(For more TRUE TALES, click HERE)

Evening Shade Town Spring

Evening Shade Town Spring

Caption – The photo to the right shows a spring house built by the town of Evening Shade to house some of the “bubbling springs” and provide safe drinking water for the residents.  The water runs out of a grating at the bottom of a set of cement steps. Of course, this developed facility was not there when I was. At that time, there was only a level, mowed field bordering the field of springs, which is located to the left of this photograph.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Lazy Day Destinations – Joe Rock

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Lazy Day Destinations – Joe Rock

 James R. Aist

Growing up in rural Arkansas left me with many fond memories of favorite places, especially when it was summer vacation and I could just pick up and go by myself, or with a friend or two, on a hot, lazy summer afternoon.

When I was around 12 years old and my family lived in Evening Shade (the real one, population 315 at the time, not the fictional one on the TV sit-com), one of my favorite places was “Joe Rock.” Just across Highway 11 from our home in Evening Shade, and about a ten minute walk down a winding farm road (see photo at upper right), was Piney Creek, which ran clear and warm in the summer until the dog days of August set in (During dog days, clumps of dead, brown algae would rise from the creek bottom and float down stream, making the water less appealing). If you made a right turn when you reached Piney Creek and followed along the creek bank for maybe 50 yards or so, you came to Joe Rock. Now Joe Rock was a real rock of rather large proportions (perhaps 5-6 feet across and rising above the water line about 3 feet) that was just sitting there in Piney Creek with water swirling all around it. Joe Rock was the sight of an inviting swimming hole, because, over the years, the water current had carved out a depression in the creek bottom around the rock, and the water around Joe Rock was about 3-4 feet deep, suitable for shallow diving from atop this solitary boulder. From the bank, Joe Rock looked like you might expect any large, over-sized rock to look, but it was no ordinary rock. Under the water, hidden from view, were three “legs” that extended down in tri-pod fashion from Joe Rock, keeping it suspended above the creek bottom about a foot or so. I’ve never seen anything like it.

This unique feature conferred a fascination on Joe Rock that added to the excitement of each visit. We enjoyed donning swimming goggles, “diving” down, swimming underwater around Joe Rock and peeking between its “legs” at each other. And that’s how I discovered that there were often one or two large-mouth bass lurking around and between the “legs” of Joe Rock, using it as cover.

Well, one day I decided it would be fun to see if I could spear one of those bass and take it home for dinner. So, the next time I left the house and set out for Joe Rock, I snuck a cooking fork from a kitchen drawer and fully intended to impale one of the bass on it. And sure enough, when I got to Joe Rock and slipped into the water, there were two unsuspecting bass just swimming lazily in and out around the “legs” of the rock. I took a deep breath, slowly submerged myself under the water and stealthily approached my prey so as not to spook them. After a few tries, I finally got close enough to one of the bass to make my move. With all my 12-year old might, I thrust the fork violently toward the unsuspecting entrée, but, alas, the fork just brushed him aside without even leaving a mark. That’s when I realized that one’s arm can move a lot faster through air than through water; I just wasn’t able to generate the fork speed required to pierce the elusive prey.

I’ll admit I was a bit disappointed that I would have to return from my fishing expedition empty handed, but I didn’t let that minor setback keep me from enjoying the rest of my swim. After all, the bass did make each visit to Joe Rock that much more exciting, so why not just leave them be, for everyone to enjoy? And so I did, and they did.

(For more TRUE TALES, click HERE)

 

 

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Wasper Warriors

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Wasper Warriors

James R. Aist

Growing up in the early-to-mid 1950s in Cypress Valley, Arkansas, one of the more rural areas of the state, did not afford much opportunity for the more standard kinds of leisure recreation, to put it conservatively. We lived on a dirt road off of a dirt road, and our friends were few and far between, literally. Consequently, we were often left to dream up novel activities to entertain ourselves, using whatever resources were at hand. These particular adventures took place when I was about 8-10 years old.

One of the most exotic and creative “games” we came up with was what we called “fightin’ waspers.” Now, we were already into sneaking up on large moths feeding on flowering shrubs and smacking them down with home-made ping pong paddles, or “snapping” them with home-made, woven “whips” constructed from cotton string. But we didn’t dare mix it up with our local wasp population, because we didn’t know how to make such an endeavor end well for us.

That is, until the Johnsons invited my family to enjoy Sunday dinner with them. After dinner, old man Johnson asked me and my next-older brother, Johnny, if we liked to fish. Well, of course we said, “Yes.” “Come with me”, he said, “and I’ll get you some great fishing bait.” So we followed Mr. Johnson out to his barn, where he fetched a long ladder and placed it against the barn near the edge of the roof. Johnny and I were confused at this point, wondering how he was going to get fishing worms from way up there. As Mr. Johnson began to scale the ladder, we stepped up closer to get a better look, and then we saw it…a dinner-plate sized wasp nest tucked up under the roof and literally covered with big, black “German waspers.” There must have been a couple hundred wasp larvae in that nest that would make excellent fish bait, but how was he going to fetch it for us without getting seriously peppered with nasty wasp stings? Without hesitation, Mr. Johnson calmly reached up with his left hand, snapped the stem of the nest, held the nest out to one side and gently shook off all of the wasps. Once the wasps had all flown away, down the ladder he came, unscathed, and handed the nest to us. Needless to say, we were dumbfounded. “How did you do that without getting stung”, we asked? “It’s easy”, Mr. Johnson explained, “All you have to do is move slowly so the wasps won’t attack you, and hold your breath so they can’t sting you.” Now that didn’t sound quite right to us, but we saw it happen right before our eyes; not one sting! “Are you kidding us”, we asked, to which he relied “No, I’m not kidding at all; I’ve done this many times without getting stung, but you have to do it just as I said.”

Well, it didn’t take long for us to put this new information to good use. How could we come up with a plan to, finally, take on the waspers and emerge victorious? First, we needed a “hand weapon”, just in case we wanted to actually engage the wasps in combat.  For that, we would cut small persimmon saplings out of the pasture field, trim off the lower branches, hold the stems together in our hand for a handle and flail at the attacking waspers to knock them to the ground, where we could then stomp them to death. That should work. Then, after our twisted little minds had mulled it over for a while longer, we came up with the following rules of engagement: 1) decide beforehand whether we would either all stand still and let the waspers fly past without trying to sting us, or, instead, strike them down with our hand weapons and try to actually kill as many as we could when they attacked; 2) walk along the dirt/gravel road looking for suitable wasp nests in the bushes lining the ditch, and then throw rocks at them until we hit the nest, causing the wasps to explode off the nest looking for an enemy to attack; 3) always hold our breath, just in case we were attacked despite all of our precautions; and 4) everyone will do the same thing (freeze or fight) each time we engaged the “enemy”, no matter what.

So, it came time to give this plan the “acid test”; we were finally going to play “fightin’ waspers!” Sensing it would probably be safer to start by just standing still (we weren’t yet fully convinced that holding our breath would really work), we set out to find a small wasp nest to attack (fewer stings if this adventure went south on us). With our hand weapons at the ready, we hurled stones at the target nest until…BAM, bull’s eye. Instantly, a dozen waspers came right at us. We “froze” immediately, arms to our sides and stiff as a board, hoping, nay, praying, that Mr. Johnson was right, and the waspers would leave us alone if we didn’t move. And, sure enough, they all flew right by us as if we weren’t there! Needless to say, we were relieved and very proud of ourselves for displaying such courage in the face of danger (Never mind that we stirred up the danger ourselves; hey, this was Cypress Valley, where you either get bored to death or you stir up some excitement for entertainment.)

Feeling more confident and cocky than ever, we decided that it was time to take it to the next level and actually fight the waspers.  So, we found another small wasp nest (we were not dummies, despite what you may be thinking right about now), struck it with a rock, took a deep breath, held our breath and swatted at the angry waspers with our hand weapons as they came at us. One by one we knocked waspers to the ground, stomped them to death and then waited for an oppurtunity to catch our breath and continue the fight. When the skirmish was finally over, we had killed about half of the dozen or so waspers who had left the nest to engage us. And even though several of the waspers had actually struck us to sink in their stinger, not one of us reported getting stung. Holding your breath really does prevent stings, just as Mr. Johnson told us!

Well, those successes established “fightin’ waspers” as a permanent part of our repertoire for dispelling boredom in Cypress Valley. Many a time we would summon Herman Lee, Tommy Joe, Fred Ray and Danny Lee to come over and play “fightin’ waspers” with us. And, as God is my witness, I can recall only two or three times anyone got stung, and that was only because they happened to take a fresh breath at just the wrong moment during the fight.

And now, for this story’s “grand finale”, I will relate the most spectacular and amazing encounter of all. It was late August, and we were nearing the end of the “fightin’ waspers” season. I was in the back yard and just happened to glance across the well-grazed pasture field when I spotted it. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Right there in the middle of the pasture field was a lone persimmon tree about six feet tall with a dinner plate-sized nest covered with the large, black German waspers! It must have been there all summer, growing larger and larger, so how in the world did we not see it before?! We had never attacked such a large nest, and it was so far into the field that in order to get close enough to hit it with a rock we would have to walk right out into the field and become prime targets for dozens and dozens of angry German waspers. So, which would it be; leave it alone because of the real and present danger of  getting covered with nasty wasp stings and, instead, just revel in our prior victories that season, or…or, crown our already impressive summer campaign with a truly mind-boggling battle, the mother of all wasper battles, as it were? Well, needless to say, we chose the latter. This nest was just daring us to try and conquer it, what with it’s “in your face” location and all, and the only way we could emerge from this challenge with a story to tell was to attack. And attack we did, but with a unique strategy that would address the unique demands of this particular nest. Actually fighting such a large hoard of winged, oncoming abdomens loaded with formic acid would be virtual suicide, so we decided to not even try that. Instead, we would walk to just within striking range, throw rocks until we finally hit the nest, fall immediately to the ground facing the nest, lay still and straight (presenting the minimal possible target size to the oncoming waspers) and hold our positions – no matter what – until all of the waspers had passed by.

Slowly, then, we walked toward the nest, picking up suitable throwing rocks as we went. When we were within throwing distance, we began to hurl rocks at the nest, one at a time. The first two chucks were so far off the mark that I began to wonder if we would be able to hit it at all. Then, summoning all of my strength (and luck), I gave the next rock a powerful heave (if I do say so myself), and…Bam, it struck that big nest smack-dab in the middle. Immediately 20,000 (OK, maybe it was “just” 200) vicious German waspers rose from that nest in unison, like a dark cloud, and suddenly I was no longer convinced that this was a good idea after all. Wisely, I reminded the others that our only hope was to stick with our plan, because in that open pasture field, there was, literally, no place to hide and no way to outrun them. So we hit the ground, facing the nest. What happened next was quite unexpected, immensely terrifying and wonderfully spectacular.

The cloud of waspers leveled out about three feet off the ground, forming a flat line of ferocious fighters arranged wingtip-to-wingtip and heading right for us. (It was hauntingly like the infamous German “blitzkrieg” of WWII; they were, after all, German waspers!). As they came closer and closer, they held this amazing formation perfectly, and I began to wonder if, somehow, this was their plan to punish us if we dared to attack their well-placed and well-guarded position. When they were about half way to us, we began to hear the beating of their collective wings making a low-pitched, very intimidating, humming noise. That’s about the time our bodies wanted so bad to bolt and run for our lives that it was all our minds could do to prevent them from doing so. Surely they had “made” us and were about to give us the licking that we deserved. But hold our positions we did, and as the well-disciplined, angry air corps passed over us, we braced ourselves for the worst. Then…nothing happened; they all just flew right over us, as if we weren’t even there. We waited for about another 30 seconds, and then we looked back to see where the waspers had gone. Low and behold, they were all clustered together in a tight ball in another persimmon tree that was about 100 feet behind us. We looked at each other in amazement and agreed that that was a very close call, but we won! Now, we had to come up with a way to retreat from the battle scene without attracting their attention and inciting another attack, perhaps with a less agreeable outcome. So we rose slowly to our feet, paused for a moment, and then circled nonchalantly way around to one side, ending up at the barn, safely outside of the purview of the ball of restless, and still-angry, ball of waspers.

Now, I will admit this may have been one adventure that was seriously ill-advised, but, WOW, did we have a story to tell this time!

DISCLAIMER: You know the drill … “don’t try this at home” … “only for trained professionals” … “not responsible for accidents” … “blah, blah, blah.”

(For more TRUE TALES, click HERE)

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A Harrowing Experience

English: Harrowing to incorporate straw near T...A Harrowing Experience

James R. Aist

We were living on a dairy farm in Cypress Valley, a very rural, unofficial community in central Arkansas. It was 1955, and I was 10 years old. My two oldest brothers had been allowed to do real farm work – i.e., working a field with serious farm equipment attached to a farm tractor – for several years. I, however, being only 10 years old, was allowed to do only lesser tasks that don’t really qualify one for manhood, as defined on a working farm. I could drive the family’s Farmall tractor down the dirt road to the General Store and back to pick up a few groceries, I could hitch a small, two-wheeled trailer to the tractor and distribute hay to the cows in the winter time, and I could help out in the milking parlor, “cleaning” the floor, mixing and “serving” dairy feed and operating the milking machines. But all of that is what makes you a farm boy, not a man, like Daddy and my two oldest brothers.

For some time I had been asking Daddy to let me work a field. I’m not sure that he knew why I was so eager to move up to field work, but I wanted to complete the “right of passage” to manhood, and it meant a great deal to me at that time. So, finally, Daddy agreed that I was ready, and he assigned me an entry level task to get started. I was to drive the tractor across the pasture to the woods, where I would find an “undeveloped” farm road leading to a small field nestled in the edge of the woods. This field had been plowed recently by one of the farm “men.” My task was, more specifically, to connect the two-wheeled “field harrow”, which had been left at the edge of the field, to the tractor, lower the tines of the harrow, pull the harrow across the field to reduce the large clods and clumps of soil left by the plow to a fine consistency suitable for planting, raise the tines and then pull the harrow back out of the field and across the pasture field to the main barn for storage. That sounded simple and straight forward to me, and so I set out to “git ‘er dun.” Finally, I was going to become a man!

Or so I thought. Everything was going according to plan until it was time for me to pull the harrow out of the field and between the two trees that defined the path to the farm road leading to the pasture field. Oh, wait, did I fail to mention that the harrow was ever so slightly wider than the tractor? Well, I found that out as I was trying to clear the two trees guarding the exit to the farm road. Apparently, I did not take the perfect angle in my approach to the opening between the two trees, and, sure enough, I managed to get the harrow lodged between the two trees as I attempted my get-away. Upon realizing what I had done, panic set in immediately. Can I manage to get the harrow dislodged and pull it triumphantly back to the barn as if nothing had gone wrong, thus sealing my membership into the coveted manhood fraternity, or would I have to leave the harrow stuck between the two trees and slink back to the barn with only the tractor, like a defeated dog with his tail between his legs? Well, try as I may, I could not free the harrow. After all, I was only 10 years old, and the harrow was definitely in the category of “heavy equipment.”

My return to the main barn was, to say the least, deflating and embarrassing. Daddy had to retrieve the harrow, and I was still not a man. And the worst part of it was that I had proven to the whole family that I was still only a farm boy! Then, to make matters worse, Daddy had just received his first assignment as an ordained Methodist Minister, and we moved away from the farm before I could get another chance to earn my manhood badge. But then, with time, I managed to get over it…or did I?

Postscript: I’ll bet that when you read the title, you didn’t see this coming!

(For more short and/or humorous stories, click HERE)