by
Vern Zielke
It was hot! The southern breeze
seemed to blow directly from some unseen fiery oven. The
temperature hovered just under the 100-degree mark on the
thermometer, with the sun just past its zenith. It was
Sunday, and we had hurried home from church. My mother knew
that she had only a few minutes to get our Sunday dinner
ready before we would hear the insistent sound of a horn,
informing us that the swimming gang was assembling, and
there was no time to spare. She never could understand how
Mrs. Wiens could get home from church and feed her family so
quickly. It was a source of genuine irritation to her to
hear that horn blow when we were still in the middle of our
meal.
I would quickly swallow the
last of my desert and gulp the last of the lemonade in my
glass for I knew that I could not keep the boys waiting. It
was time to get on board! Sometimes the vehicle being
boarded was just a stripped down car, consisting of four
wheels, a powerful Ford engine and some seats. There were no
seat belts or roll bars. Safety was not a consideration.
Getting there fast certainly was a consideration, as the car
bore its occupants toward a little taste of paradise, a
place sometimes referred to as "Bragg's Puddle."
The term "puddle" was actually
a bit demeaning for such a beautiful place. It was not a
mere puddle. It was really a spring-fed pond in Bragg's
pasture, just a little ways from the road. Bragg's Puddle
lay almost straight east of our farm. The graveled road
became a narrower dirt road after three miles and continued
on to the Moundview School, with farms and wheat fields on
either side. Then the road narrowed even more and no longer
followed straight section lines. The terrain became more
scenic, although the boys aboard the strip-down may not
often have taken the time to admire the grassy hills and the
trees, nor did they always take note of the meadowlark's
song as they approached their destination.
These fun-loving boys were
products of rather conservative Mennonite families, and not
just any activity was considered appropriate, especially on
Sunday. Games such as baseball or touch football were
approved and often engaged in, but the more exotic
activities, such as bowling, pool, roller skating, or movies
were taboo. In the summertime, swimming became the activity
of choice. Many hours were spent at the pool in Fowler, and
sometime trips were made to Dodge City. The pool at Meade
was considered inferior because it was smaller and did not
have adequate diving facilities.
Then, at some point, someone
discovered Bragg's Puddle. The owner (Mr. Bragg, I presume)
gave us permission to use it for a swimming hole. The pond
had a sandy bottom, so that no mud was stirred up by our
activity, as opposed to other swimming holes around the
community, which we sometime frequented. The spring-fed
water was clear and cold, and just to anticipate that first
dive on a hot afternoon was sheer ecstasy. It was important
to get to our destination as early as possible, because all
of us knew that by four o'clock we would be compelled to
head for home to take care of Sunday afternoon chores.
Two things were lacking at this
otherwise ideal swimming hole. The first was the fact that
no girls ever frequented this place. It might be that we
just never invited them to come, or maybe the girls that we
knew did not go swimming on a Sunday afternoon. It is likely
that they would have looked with disfavor at the idea of
swimming in a cow pasture pond. If we desired the company of
the opposite sex, we could always go to Fowler, where we
could enjoy the company of many other swimmers. In fact, in
Fowler, on a warm Sunday afternoon, you had to stand in line
to use the diving board, which gave you plenty of time to
ogle the girls, but certainly cut down on your diving time.
At Bragg's Puddle we had no
diving board. This was considered to be a serious problem.
It was not long till a movement was underway to construct a
sturdy diving board. A railroad tie was procured, possibly a
stray, left by the side of the Rock Island right of way, and
a good length of two by twelve lumber was purchased at the
lumberyard. These two main items, along with some posts to
serve as anchors, and a posthole digger, were transported to
the site, and soon a newly installed diving board graced the
pond's edge. We all loved to use the springboard, and spent
many hours trying to perfect our diving skills. Some became
proficient at flips, forwards and backwards. Some even tried
to invent new dives, or had fun doing the cannonball.
Sometimes just a plain old belly flop would do.
By today's standards, swimming
in a pasture in a remote area might be unacceptable. While
the pond was spring fed, it certainly was not chlorinated.
There was never a lifeguard on duty, although you could say
that there were as many lifeguards as there were swimmers.
We had no cell phones with which to call 911 in case of an
emergency and none of us had any knowledge of life saving
techniques. It was our good fortune that no serious
emergency ever arose. We were a happy-go-lucky group, and
whatever safety awareness we possessed would have had its
basis in some common sense practices, which came from our
experiences on the farm.
After a full afternoon of
vigorous swimming and diving we had only time for faspa and
chores before we had to get ready to go to the evening
church service. No one even thought of begging off with the
excuse that a full afternoon in the hot sun was just too
tiring. Maybe our parents reasoned that twice in church on
Sunday would somehow offset the more profane nature of our
afternoon activities.
None of us expected to visit the swimming hole during the
week because we would be busy from morning to night running
tractors, trucks, and combines or stacking bales on hot
afternoons. We all looked forward to the next Sunday
afternoon, when once again the shimmering, sunlit surface of
Bragg's Puddle would beckon. Our mothers would once again
feel constrained to hurry with dinner in order to forestall
the inevitable blare of the horn that would announce the
arrival of a vehicle, be it a stripped down Ford, a pick-up
truck, or a family sedan. Even though all of this happened
many years ago, I can still feel a tinge of anticipation
when I think about making that first dive of the afternoon
into the depths of Bragg's Puddle.
(Copyright Vern Zielke)
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