Village Squire, 1976-08, Page 12The Swimming Hole
To some people, joy on a Sunday just wasn't
right in those far-off days
By Robert E. Laidlaw
THE SWIMMING POOL
Charlie Adams woke to the sound of the oriole singing. The
oriole was happy because the four young ones had hatched in the
nest high in the crab apple tree. He was happy also on general
principles because it was June, the morning sun was bright and
heralded the warmth of summer.
Charlie stretched and lay snuggly in that luxuriant no man's
land between sleeping and waking. There was something he was
happy about too; he could not think just what. It was Saturday of
course but there was more than that. As the oriole hit a high note
it came to him. Of course it was Saturday, June 27, and the
summer holidays started today. The weekend coming just when it
did added four more blessed days to that infinity of days, weeks,
and months stretching to a September so far away it need not be
regarded.
It was also June 27th, 1914, but the year did not register with
Charlie. The fact that at that very moment half a world away a
group of frowsy people huddled around a table in a rough stone
cottage in Bosnia were also contemplating the days ahead meant
nothing to him. Even if he had known what they were planning it
would still have meant nothing.
He pulled on knee pants and shirt and took note of the bright
and cheerful day. Sound of breakfast being prepared came from
below but on sudden impulse he crept down the stairs and
bypassed the kitchen.
His fishing rod a superanuated bamboo binder whip lay on the
open joists of the wood shed. He pulled it down retrieved some
hooks from a shelf and started stealthily for the creek. The lawn
gate squeaked a protest and he heard his mother's voice.
"Charlie, you haven't had breakfast yet."
"Aw, Mom. I'm not hungry. I want to get fishing right away."
"Come back here...you have to eat something You might faint
and fall in the creek."
His mother was given to exaggeration.
He negotiated a compromise whereby he set off with a biscuit
in one hand and the pole and a piece of cheese in the other. He
took alternate bites, skilfully avoiding the pole and was secretly
glad of his mother's concern.
He moved at a trot the short distance to the creek and the
biscuit and cheese disappeared.
The creek was a spring fed stream which wandered about in no
hurry to get any where. It ran the full length of the farm, and took
up a good deal of time and space in doing so. Fed by springs it
remained more or less constant in flow through the year. In
winter the spring water seldom froze. In summer there were long
stretches of cool water and pools overhung by willows where the
trout lived.
The trout were mostly wary individuals, many of them a good
size. They had gotten that way by avoiding the mistakes of foolish
brethern who somehow disappeared attached to juicy worms or
odd looking flies.
Charlie had maintained a feud with the trout all the previous
summer. Success had been limited but experience was gained.
He approached the stream now with caution and crept quietly
along well back from the bank.
10, 'VILLAGE SQUIRE/AUGUST 1976
Where the stream turned at right angles there was a deep pool
and a willow hung over it. Charlie paused here, he overturned
some stones and exposed some odd looking grubs. He didn't
know what they were...he just knew the fish liked them. He
unwound the line from the pole, baited the hook and creeping
carefully in reach of the water, cast the hook and bait where there
was an eddy. He knew the eddy was there though he couldn't see
it. It took skill to avoid tangling with the willow, skill that he
didn't have the year before.
Almost at once there was a strike, a brief commotion, and the
trout was landed. It was almost a foot long, the speckles shone
brilliantly in the sun and Charlie's heart thumped with
excitement. Last year it had taken weeks to land his first trout.
He worked along the creek for a mile wading through boggy
stretches and cutting his bare feet on the sedge grass. There
were fish hungry enough to bite but as the sun rose and the day
grew warmer they retired to shady corners and would not be
tempted. He wound up his line, collected the three trout he had
caught and started for home. There was a distant shout and far
down the stream he saw two bosom pals, Angus and Jimmy.
He waited while the two approached at a rapid bare foot trot.
"Whatcha doing, Charlie?"
"Oh just pokin' around, not much of anything".
"Them fish just jumped out on the bank I suppose and you
picked them up."
"Well, I caught them back a piece, not much to it when you
know the places."
"Huh, smart guy, eh!"
Jimmy and Angus were envious, they had never done much
fishing, however, it wouldn't do to admit it.
"I hear the trout are wormy this year," said Jimmy. "Anyway
I can't be bothered fishing, it's too slow. We're looking for a
place to swim."
"It's too shallow, we'll have to build a dam like last year," said
Angus.
Charlie had a book that told all about dams among other
things.
"If you fellows listen to me we can make a dam that won't go
out every time it rains. You've got to make them with a'curve and
have a spill way. I can show you."
"Ok, Mr. Know-it-all. Come and show us, but you've got to work
too, and not just stand around."
A suitable site was chosen and construction commenced. There
were delays. The work crew had to go home to eat and when they
did one or more would be captured by a press gang and forced
into a more suitable occupation. In 1914 work was considered an
excellent thing for small boys. It kept them out of trouble. Charlie
and his friends in self defence evolved protective traits. They
cultivated the magic art of disappearing. Like baby partridges
now you saw them now you didn't.
When they vanished into this magic wall and came out on the
other side there was freedom for a space. Along about supper
time the magic wore off and the grim world of reality returned.
One could however, sometimes slip unnoticed into a seat at tKe