 My neighbor and I read hundreds of comic books. During the winter and summer, we always had time to read and re-read about our favorite heroes. Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer were books we wore out. Anything to do with a creek or river was read until it fell apart. We liked the raft stories, and how people learned to live on them. To catch a Mississippi River catfish was always one of our dreams. You know the kind so large they nearly tipped over the boat. We wanted to see one of those Mississippi River paddle boats where they danced and gambled. Playing cards was also one of our pass times. With these thoughts in mind, Roddy and I set out to build a raft. A raft which would take us down the Buffalo Creek, Monogahela, Ohio and the Mississippi Rivers to New Orleans and the Gulf of Mexico. Roddy and I studied for weeks the best technique to build a raft. The main considerations were our tools, supply of wooden logs and flood season. Being only eleven years old, we did not possess the strength to cut trees from the woods and carry them to the water. We did the next best thing--cut the trees that grew along the stream's edge. First things first. We found two sharp hatchets to fall the trees and several feet of old clothes line to hitch the logs together. At our neighbor's farm, we found a barbed wire stretcher and some once use barb wire in good condition. We found an old hand drill in their blacksmith shop to drill a holes for a flag, sail, and sleeping shelter. Believe me we had it all figured out, right down to the "T". It was early June, fishing was good, plenty of night crawlers, the school year was over, and now it was time. We had dreamed about it all winter, gathered supplies and now were ready for our great adventure. As soon as we got home, on the last day of school, we headed for the Buffalo Creek pump house to start our project. To make to many trips to the creek would give away our secret project. Margaret Ice, our neighbor, used a pair of binoculars to spy on Roddy and me. She was smart enough to know to stay two steps ahead of us and then call our parents. She was kind of like a U-2 spy plane disclosing our plans before we got started. It was then necessary to disguise our tools and carry them like fishing gear. Eventually we got everything to the fishing bank and was ready to start a full scale operation. The longer we waited, the more likely someone would detect our raft building operation and blow our cover. It became necessary to work eight or nine hours a day to construct the raft. When older boys came to the pump house to swim, we would tell them we were building the raft for sun bathing. Someday, we told them, we would tie it off in the middle of the swimming hole and all of them could use it. Three days later, the trees had been cut down and were ready to be cut into eight foot lengths. The sycamores were cut into beautiful eight foot lengths and placed side by side along the water's edge. On the fourth day, we tied them together with rope and hitched them tightly at each end with the barb wire. On the fifth day, we drilled holes in the logs and built a shelter, placed a flag and constructed the flag from feed sacks. We were ready to go except for one thing. The raft was too heavy for us to move. We decided to wait for a big rain to raise the creek. This would allow us to make it over the shallow riffles and float without paddling or poling our way. We even installed a drag or rudder to help us guide the raft. We had gathered canned meats, beans, corn, jellies, and other non- perishables. We had two half gallons of drinking water, along with several cokes. We had a wool blanket from Rods mother storage chest. We were ready! Where was the rain? We needed a "cats and dog" type of rain. Two days later our wish was granted. It rained from evening till just before morning. It was a Saturday, everyone was home and in bed. I slipped out of bed and with my pants laid across my arm I slipped out the kitchen door to find my dog, Boy, looking at me.  My dog and I were seldom separated and now I had to tell him to stay home.
He looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. I could see Rod
coming with his bag of food, blanket and more. Boy wasn't going to have any
part of this and was determined to go with us. Although I chased him home a
half dozen times, he beat us to the pump house launching site. "Now, what
are you going to do with that dog?" Rod asked. "Don't worry about it," I
said. "He will go home."Everything was perfect, the water had risen at least two feet, and the rain had stopped. It was now or never. With two long poles cut from maples, we pried and tugged at the raft for nearly an hour. I yelled at Rod, "Stop prying and hold on to the anchor! It's about to slide into the water!" No sooner had the words came out of my mouth, the raft was launched. It was beautiful as it slipped into the water. It slipped further...further... and further into the dark depths of the pump house fishing hole. Down, down, down it went straight to the bottom. The only thing standing was the top one foot of the sail which gradually sank sideways in the swift water. We stood in shock looking at the water which had swallowed up our raft. Our dreams of catching Mississippi catfish, riding the paddle boats and playing cards with the New Orleans card sharks had vanished into the dark water. What had we done wrong? How could this have happened.? Had someone put a curse on it? We sat on the rocky outcrop asking each other how could a log sink? It was made of wood, wood is suppose to float. At least we had our food supply. We built a fire, roasted some sausage on a stick and drank a coke. The day was not lost, we caught some cat fish in a back water near the top of the pump house and slowly walked home still wondering about the sunken raft. On our way home we stopped to talk to my neighbor, John Ice, an expert on farming, trees, animals and a whole lot of other subjects. Gradually we got around to talking about trees. I then ask him, if there were certain trees heavier than water. He sat against the watering trough for a minute or so and finally said, "Yes. What kind of trees are they?" I asked. John pointed, "See that light colored tree down at the end of the field near the creek. That's a sycamore and those trees growing along the stream near the spring are elms. They are full of water and will not float unless they are laid out to dry for several years. They rot easily, do not burn well and are down right worthless." With that remark, we said our good-byes and started home mumbling to ourselves. We had worked a week on a worthless raft. One thing for sure, the rafting business was out of our systems and we would stick to the creek banks for our fishing trips. We learned a hard lesson that spring about trees and I never look at a tree the same after that experience. I guess at this point in my story I need not tell you that elm and sycamore are not my favorite trees. Arriving home, I found my father sitting at the kitchen table having a midmorning cup of coffee. He asked me if I had seen his hatchet. I told him I had been using it and had not brought it home. Then he asked where it was. When I told him at the pump house, he looked at me with strong concern. I remember his eye brows raised up and his mouth tighten a little. Dad ask me to come get a cup of coffee and afterwards I could go after it. When I reached for the cup of coffee, he noticed my hands were full of blisters. I mean blisters on top of blisters. "My," he said, "you are turning into a man. What was your project?" I told him Rod and I had built a raft for fishing the pump house area and when launched, it promptly sank to the bottom. "That must have been very disappointing," he added. "How long did it take you to build your sunken raft?" he asked. "A week of hard work," I exclaimed. That day my dad gave me a pair of gloves to wear and taught me how to identify different types of tomato stakes. He also determined I was strong enough to sharpen each one to a fine point and not once did I find a sycamore or elm. To Story Menu |
