Features

Me and Dillard, Volume 4, Issue 3

Summertime 1956 … I didn’t know what else was going on in the world then, and I was probably better off not knowing. At seven years old, I couldn’t tell you that Dwight Eisenhower was the President, but I could tell you what I was going to do today and tomorrow.

Dillard and I were going camping to the Hoodin’ Pile. Now both of my regular readers will immediately recognize the Hoodin’ Pile as being perhaps one of the best all-time swimming holes in the known world.

This particular trip was going to be extra special because we were going to spend the night on the banks of Messer Creek. Fishing all night and swimming all day, can it get any better than that? And besides all that, one of my best buddies was going to be with us.

Now Junior Stokes was two years older than me, but he wasn’t as experienced in the ways of the woods as me. He would have been way too scared to walk through the woods to Dillard’s like me. He wasn’t as good a swimmer as me, and he certainly wouldn’t have jumped off the high cliff overlooking the Hoodin’ Pile. No sir, he might have been a few years older than me, but I was definitely way more experienced.

He and I were riding double on Dillard’s plow horse. Dillard was astride his favorite leopard spotted Appaloosa. Walking obediently behind was his pack mule. This was going to be a trip to remember.

We arrived at just the right time to make camp and still be able to get in a great afternoon of swimming before we started fishing. That was good because Junior needed to learn about swimming in treacherous waters like the Hoodin’ Pile. We rushed over to the swimming hole and hollered back to Dillard, “We going to go ahead and start swimming now.” He nodded and turned back to finish his task.

There we were standing on the edge of the water looking at the jumping rock. The reason we were looking at the rock instead of standing on the rock was that there were two cottonmouths already there. This was certainly an uncompromising situation because we came there to swim.

“Get out of here,” I yelled as I picked up a rock and chucked it at them. I had heard the older boys tell me about shooing the snakes in the water and going ahead and swimming. “Snakes can’t bite underwater,” they said.

The rocks bounced too close to the cottonmouths for comfort. They dropped off the tree limb they had been laying on and went out of sight in the water. I walked to the edge of the jumping rock located in the middle of the swimming hole and peered in the water for a bit. I turned and waved Junior over to me. I looked at him and said, “It’s ok. Snakes can’t bite underwater. You can jump in if you want to.”

Junior’s eyes told on him. He thought I was crazy. He then shook his head and said, “I’m not jumping in with them snakes.” I bailed off the rock in a cannonball pose and yelled “sissy” before I went underwater.

It was a perfect cannonball and I went deep in the water. It was odd though. It felt like I had scraped my elbow on a rusty nail. I had done that one time behind Uncle Alva’s house, so I knew what it felt like. But this time, it was peculiar because I was underwater. As I started reaching the top of the water, I looked back toward my elbow intending to see what the sting was all about and saw a cottonmouth strike my elbow again.

I slapped at him and yelled as loud as I could, “Dillard, they lied! I’ve been snake bit, and I’m going to die.” I don’t know how in the world he got to me so fast. I told folks for years that Dillard snatched me out of the water and never even got wet. He would always smile and say that I met him on the bank.

“How did I get there? I don’t remember swimming to the bank,” I said. He replied, “I just assumed you walked on the water. When I got to you all that was wet was the bottom of your feet.”

What I remember most about that day was how sick I got. Dillard used his knife and cut the bite and sucked out the poison as best he could, but by the time we finally got to the doctor over two hours later my arm was big and black. I stayed in the hospital a couple of days for them to keep a watch on me.

Dillard was there the next day when Doc Jones came in and gave me another shot of something. He asked me how I got bit in the first place. I told him that lie about snakes don’t bite underwater. He said, “What do you believe now?” I looked at my still swollen arm and said, “Snakes may prefer to bite you on the ground, but they will definitely bite you underwater.” He smiled and asked, “Changed your mind, have you?”

Dillard said, “Doc, I’d listen to the boy. He is in rare company now.” Doc Jones looked at him quizzically and said, “How so?”

“Well sir, up until three days ago, only the good Lord and Peter had walked on water, and now this boy has walked farther than Peter. If he tells you that snakes will bite underwater, you can count on it,” Dillard said.

Old Doc Jones roared with laughter. I just smiled sheepishly and said, while drifting off to sleep again, “Dillard, you ain’t so funny.”