Page 17 - Arkansas 811

Boy howdy, it was unnecessarily hot! Half this hot would
have been entirely too hot. Mercifully, I got to Dillard’s just before I passed out from heat exhaustion. I mean a seven year old boy’s melting point is just to the left of ice. “Hey Dillard, can I get a drink?”
He stopped rocking for a second
and pointed to the well, “It’s already drawed.” I dipped the gourd into the bucket and carried it with me to the front porch. “Want a drink?” I asked as I offered the dipper to him. He took
a drink, handed it back to me and
said, “The best well water in Possum Holler.” I cradled the gourd in my lap and leaned back on one of the columns. Life was good and getting better. I was to learn much later in school that this could have been defined as “resting raised to the nth degree.”
I broke the silence by asking, “Would you believe that I saw a big old fox squirrel fanning his hickory nuts before he could hold them today?” He slowly nodded in agreement, “Wouldn’t surprise me at all, saw one burst
into flames yesterday myself.” Dang! Dillard always sees the really good stuff. It pays to be in the right place for sure and I also learned later in life that it paid to tell your story last.
“Holding this gourd of cool water in
my lap reminds me that we haven’t been to the Hoodin’ Pile in a long time. Any chance of us going there today,” I timidly asked. Now the Hoodin’ Pile is a swimming hole. But for me to say that the Hoodin’ Pile was just a swimming hole would be like saying the Rocky Mountains is just a hill.
I’m talking about a great spring-fed swimming hole on the backside of nowhere. You didn’t accidentally get there. It was a long journey through bitter weed filled pastures, saw briar thickets, and finally a huge cane break that dead ended into the big woods
that led the determined traveler to his destination. When I turned to ask him again, I saw him coming out of the front door holding his long walking stick. That stick was the best snake killer
in the county. We were getting ready
to bust some brush, and business was about to pick up.
No matter how hot the day or brown the grass, a trek to this oasis would send the soul a stirring. On a quiet day, even before you could see the lush green grass or the critters that were sure to be nearby, you could hear the water percolating out of the hillside as it had done for generations. Finally, we arrived! Hypnotized by the beautifully melodic sound caused by the water splashing into the pool below, I waded into the crystal clear water, climbed upon the jumping rock located in the middle of the pool and closed my eyes for just a moment. The shade of the huge cottonwoods kept me safe from the direct rays of the hot sun.
I opened my eyes in surprise to find out almost two hours had passed. I felt so unnecessary and liked the feeling.
Dillard’s voice rumbled across the pool as he said, “Boy, you can sleep on the porch. You best get to swimming.” And swim I did. I liked jumping off the big old rock in the middle of the pool. I’d stand there and wait for Dillard to yell “Cannonball” and jump for all I was worth. What a great day!
Toward the shank of the afternoon, I timidly asked, “Do you think it would be ok if I jump off the cliff?”
Now the cliff was a ledge that jutted out from the hillside above where the water poured into the deep pool of water below. It must have been 120 feet high. Well, at least it seemed to be that high. Years later when Dillard and I were visiting about that day, he accidentally let it slip that the cliff measured four inches short of nine feet. Yeah, right... like I believed that.
He replied, “Sure you can jump, why?” “Because last year the Icenhower boys made fun of me when I wouldn’t jump,” I said. “And why wouldn’t you jump?” “Good grief, I was just a kid.” He quickly answered back, “Aren’t you still a kid?” “Well sort of, but not as much as last year,” I retorted.
“Well then jump,” he said without really looking at me. “I want to, but I’m sort
of afraid.” Predictably he said, “Then
don’t jump.” “I need to jump so those Icenhower boys won’t make fun of me the next time.”
“Why are you afraid,” he asked. “I don’t know,” I answered. Dillard said with a wry smile, “That’s what most folks are afraid of. When you are jumping off the rock, what do you see?” “I don’t know,
I guess I see the water.” So he asked, “What do you see when you are on the cliff?” “The water I guess.” His reply was simply, “It can’t be the water you see, that’s what you see when you aren’t afraid on the rock.”
The silence was deafening for a moment, and then I stood up and told him, “I’m going to try not to be afraid.” I climbed on the ledge and peered over the edge. That part about trying not to be afraid didn’t work.
I’ll never forget that Dillard started pulling off his boots. He began to wade out into the deep water and never took his eyes off me. He walked confidently, patiently, and with purpose until he stood in the water that went over the top of the bibs on his overalls. He slowly smiled, nodded his head as if he knew what was about to happen, and said, “Now what do you see?” “I see you.”
“Cannonball!” he volleyed at me. “Geronimo!” I cried as I bailed off the ledge. Forever I was in the air. Splash went the water as I was buried for what seemed to be almost too long. I came up gasping for air and losing my breath laughing because the splash had knocked Dillard’s hat in the water.
“Can I jump one more time? This time you don’t have to be in the water. Only just tell me cannonball.” Dillard walked to the bank and began to drip dry.
The walk home was a walk of glorious victory. The joy of telling the story over and over made me look forward to seeing those Icenhower boys again.
On the outside, I would say, “Me? Afraid of jumping off that little old cliff? Not likely.”
But on the inside, I’d be saying, “Cannonball, baby cannonball!”
2023, Issue 3 Arkansas 811 Magazine • 15