During my childhood, when my family wasn’t tagging along behind oil rigs, my siblings, cousins and I lived in homes on a country blacktop road that ran around and through our family neighborhood on Galvins Creek. The road was paved with tar and pea gravel and nothing else. During summertime, when the sun reached the right temperature, fat black tar bubbles would start to balloon from between the one million pieces of pea gravel. One of our favorite past times was to run around with long skinny sticks and pop as many tar bubbles as we could. It was great fun for kids who lived in the country and who were responsible for entertaining themselves!
Back then, we went barefoot – it was fashionable, acceptable, expected and totally chic for country bumpkin kids – which we were. The bottoms of our feet were conditioned and tough enough to take the stickers, sticks and even sharp rocks, but could never combat the heat of that black tarred pea gravel road. We hopped around from one foot to the other trying to cool off one foot just to have the other foot finding every hot bubble within hopping distance. We’d go home at the end of the day with the heels of both feet dotted with tar spots. We wore those dots all summer because no amount of soap and water would scrub them away.
That was the life back in the seventies! Our house set at the apex of what the family affectionally called ‘the hill’, and my Great Grandma Hudspeth’s house set at the apex on the other side of it. When we grew tired of popping tar bubbles, we would ride our banana seat bicycles at an excessive rate of speed down the hill and halfway up the other side. From there we’d pedal like crazy to try and make it to the top of the other side of the hill. We always ran out of speed before we topped that steep rascal and wound up with worn out calves and muscle cramps. The next day found us at it again. We got all of the’ goody’ out of those bikes and that hill.
Back then there were no stock laws regarding livestock, and cows roamed the countryside grazing at will. Some of those cows found our road and left behind little gifts of cow dung or manure that dotted the road and ditch. There were small bugs called tumble bugs who inevitably found the cow piles and rolled out a marble sized piece of the cow pile which then became their home. Pairs of tumble bugs would attach themselves to each side of the ‘marble’ and start rolling it all around the black tar road. It was fascinating to watch and watch we did! Most people today don’t even know what a tumblebug is!
Another favorite summer past time was wading in the icy cold waters of Galvins Creek. The outside temperature could reach 100 degrees and you could still refrigerate milk in its cold waters and the milk wouldn’t spoil. (As a matter fact, that same creek served as the refrigeration source for my daddy and his family during his childhood.) If we were brave enough, we’d submerge our entire bodies into the frigid waters only to have our lips turn a deep bluish purple and our teeth chatter like a manual typewriter hard at work. Many was the time my cousin, Dobber, stood on that sandy creek bank, his lips blue and his body shaking uncontrollably. Once the shaking subsided, he’d jump back in the water. There were always more than a few snakes watching us from a distance on the sidelines, waiting for us to abandon our adventure so they could get back to their snaky habits.
Then there were the days of chasing carpenter bees with small boards and swatting just enough to stun them so we could pick them up and put them in mason jars. The jars had holes poked in the lids. It was always a catch and release effort, as we’d later let them escape out of the jars to buzz their way back into the freedom of Grandma’s flowers. It was a contest to see who could catch the most bees and regardless of the winners and losers, it never disappointed!
We roamed the field just beyond the creek hunting arrowheads for Grandma Hudspethtogluetoher arrowhead collection board that hung just inside the screened in front porch. If we were lucky, we’d find a chip or piece of one or maybe even a perfect one and we’d present it to her like it was fine bone China. She was always gracious and thanked us for our efforts by giving us a piece of syrup cake or a glass of ice water. That board hung on her porch wall until a few months before she passed.
Summers were simple when we were kids. We grew up safe, loved, and living in rural Louisiana’s countryside where times were precious, and the adventures were many. Country bumpkins we were, but we were also happy and carefree. There’s not enough money to buy a childhood like that.
