Nekkid on the Crick: A Dixie, Rex, 'n Roxie Tale

In retrospect, it was probably for the best that we were raised on a farm. Mom and Dad had a bit of an organic streak that caused them to believe in raising free-range children. We were certifiably cage-free, alright. It's a good thing that all that took place far from the city limits.

About a quarter mile from the house was a mud-bottomed creek. A side note here: We three have always been bi-lingual. Fluent in both English and Okie, we could switch from one to the other with ease. We understood that Mom said it like it rhymed with stick, but you spelled it with two e's, like week. We knew to tell Grandma that we were going to the crick, but when we wrote stories about it at school, we said creek. Kids are just like that somehow. But, I digress.

There was an old wooden bridge built by the county that crossed the creek. We thought it was for us alone. You know, like cities will build a playground and dedicate it to the children of the community. We were the only kids for ten or fifteen miles around, so by rights the bridge was ours. The pickups and combines and road-graders that crossed it were the intruders.

One day when Dixie, Rex, and I were about eight, six, and four we were playing under our bridge. And we decided to take off all our clothes and roll in the mud. I don't know why--we just thought it would be a good idea.

And guess what? It was a great idea. Gentle Reader, if the opportunity to waller your bare-skinned hide around in the mud under the sun in June ever presents itself to you, I heartily recommend you avail yourself of it.

And, as I pointed out, since this was in the privacy of our own county water-way, who would be disturbed?

I have introduced our neighbors, Clyde and Alvina to you before, here. I may have explained that the hardworking old German couple were childless, and a little alarmed by the very idea of children--even the kind who knew how to sit quietly in the back of the pickup and wait for Dad to finish yet another re-telling of how the new drive shaft for the tractor came in just in time.

However, I never told you about the Chinaberry Tree Situation, and I spared you the details of the Rose Petal Massacre. But let's just put it this way: more than once, Clyde or Alvina had CALLED MOM. About US. And we didn't like it. Let's just say there was a little history there, OK?

And I am shamed to tell you, friends, that here is where the tale turns dark.

Yes, on that deceptively innocent, sparkling-pure summer day, the three of us hatched a plot. A plot of terror that we were sure would silence Clyde and Alvina once and for all. The plan was this: First, we would cleverly disguise our naked selves with the dried mud on our faces and other diverse body parts. We would stick cat-tails in our hair and smush leaves on ourselves wherever we could get the slimy mud to stick. Then--Oh! The sheer brilliance of our sinister scheme!--we would hide under the bridge until Clyde and Alvina drove over it. At just the right time, we would leap out into the creek, waving sticks and hollering war whoops and various and sundry other yelps.

Then, unharmed, but fearful and disheartened, Clyde and Alvina would surely return to their home and leave us to wreak our havoc and expand our reign of terror all up and down Rural Route 9.

There was just one problem.

Clyde and Alvina were not terrified.

Nor were they amused.

And, oddly enough--neither was Mom.

Mercifully, the details all go hazy right about here. I have a vague memory of Mom flying down the road barefoot--but in a dress, of course, because that's about all she ever wore back then. I also remember her waving a yardstick about in a shockingly un-pacifist-ish sort of way.

I suppose this little childhood story follows a common theme. The free spirits of the world are always being stamped into the mold of the conformists, aren't they?

Which, again, in retrospect, was probably a good thing in this instance.