When I was a little girl I spent many a wonderful summer day with my cousin Butch.
My brother and I, along with my cousin Butch would play Cowboys and Indians, climb trees, and spend our mornings damming
up Uncle Andy's creek so we could swim and catch crawfish. Uncle Andy was our Granny's uncle. He had been married four times, each time to a lady who had the name Mary.
That is another story in itself since Andy lived to be 99.
Our granny lived up the dirt road from Uncle Andy. She and Poppa Coy had a log cabin, lots of fruit trees, chickens, some hogs (I loved the little piglets) and of course, a big garden patch. There was no electricity in the cabin, no running water nor was there indoor plumbing. She had a big two seater johnny out back. Perhaps that was where I learned my fear of spiders.
But that is another story.
We always were mindful of the bull at Uncle Andy's. He always stood under a tree on the big hill way far up on the property. To get to the creek, we had to pass through the pasture, watching our step for cow patties with one eye and the other eye always on the bull. One summer day, after a particularly satisfying time sliding from the big mossy rock in the middle of the creek into the cool water, we began our journey back home. Coming out of the thicket, into the pasture we surveyed our position and that of the bull. Certain that he was oblivious to us, we started trudging along, our soggy, slick clothes sticking to us - I remember how good that cold
felt on such a hot day. The boys were always ahead of me, always trying to lose me, a tagalong interloper that was a stinking GIRL.
The bull noticed us this time. Probably because the boys were jumping up and down, hooting and hollering all at the top of their lungs. Perhaps he was merely curious about us - in retrospect, I choose to think that.
However, when the boys saw him coming down the hill at a fairly good clip, they screamed RUN! Looking for the bull under the tree, it registered in my brain that he was heading our way. I began running down the hill as fast as my fat little legs could carry me. I declare I could feel his breath snorting down my neck! I slipped in a particularly fresh pile and lost my footing. I rolled down the rest of the hill, much like Jack and Jill. After I scrambled back to my feet, I saw the boys with Uncle Andy leaning against the gate post. They were laughing. Winded, wet from the creek, stained from head to toe with grass and fresh manure, I surely must have been a sight. I didn't stop running until I was under the fence and standing behind Uncle Andy.
The bull was standing back under the tree. It appears that he lost interest in us fairly quickly and trudged back up the hill to his shady spot to watch this blonde headed gal in pig tails roll through the muck all the way down that hill.
That story is still legend on the Hill. I have put enough years behind me to find it mildly amusing these days. Butch still finds it rather hilarious. He took relish in sharing that particular story of my youth with Larry this past weekend. We had need of Butch - he has a backhoe and we had a fierce break in our water line. All weekend he and Larry dug a new trench and laid the line, finally connecting the new pipe and restoring my sanity. Butch regaled my big man with every story that I had almost forgotten from those lazy summer days. How nice it would be to return to those halcyon days, hiding away from the world in the dreaming tree, watching the rain walk up the road, sitting out back snapping beans with my granny once more, and never wondering how I am going to pay a $1200.00 water bill.