Saturday In the Park with Rhea
My childhood was marvelous. Raised in a small town where the environment was safe, the world was my oyster. As long as I promised to stay off the railroad tracks and away from the river I could wander at will.
I was always a tomboy and, together with my sister Joan and our friends, we loved adventure. We formed clubs and inhabited clubhouses of all description. We climbed trees and explored the woods all around us, occasionally warring with the local boys who thought that by virtue of their gonads the surrounding territory belonged to them.
We especially loved big rock formations of all kinds that we could climb and feel like King of the Mountain. Big Rock, Little Rock, Slippery Rock, Egyptian Rock (all named by us of course) …we loved them all. We learned to climb the easy side for quick access and to scale the more hazardous side when feeling a bit more dare devil and in need of a challenge.
Saturday mornings were especially wonderful times. We would watch Roy Rogers and Sky King on television, then we’d pack a lunch and head off in search of something to do.
One day when I was 11-years old, Joan, our friend Yvette (Lambert, for those of you who have wondered) and I set out to thoroughly explore the pond in Manville Park, something we figured had probably never been done before.
Coming in by way of the baseball field, past the picnic tables, beyond the play area and then on to the beach, we turned left. All was serene until we reached the opposite side of the pond where we made a major discovery – a large, flat-sided rock that we dubbed Egyptian Rock because it just had that sort of look about it.
But wait! Someone had been here before us! We spotted candles that had been burned down to stubs, and realized that large fires had been also been lit at some point in the past, blackening the smooth face of the rock with soot. It made us shiver to imagine of what may have transpired there; surely some sort of pagan rites we guessed. We knew all about pagan things from our nuns at school.
In the space between the rock and the pond was a large soft, sandy area where nothing grew. Everything was grayish looking. It had a definite look of quicksand about it and we all knew better than to set foot on it. To do so would have been foolhardy and if we sank in it and died our parents would kill us.
Onward we trekked. Along the shoreline, through the bushes, and over the rocks we went. This was much bigger that we had anticipated.
I don’t know how it happened, but before we could even think of turning back we suddenly found ourselves in a marshy area, all three of us precariously perched on one log, hanging onto the adjacent bushes for support and wondering what to do next. We had already heard stories about this place. This was the swamp that had water snakes lurking beneath the surface, immediately ruling out any thought of saving ourselves by wading out through the ankle-deep water. Intrepid explorers though we may have been, we drew the line at snakes and resorted to the only reasonable alternative we could think of. We screamed for help.
We had pretty much resigned ourselves to spending the rest of our lives there when, just like we had so often seen in movies, a rescue party came over the hill. Four guys who we later learned were from Cumberland, two redheaded brothers of about 14 and 16, and two younger boys had heard our cries and came to see what all the fuss was about. They found boards on shore and placed them across the swampy land for us to walk on and gallantly assisted us to safety.
Our heroes!
We shared our lunch with them as we sat around talking and becoming acquainted with each other. And as I looked at the handsome, dark-haired 11-year old boy named Ronny, for the first time in my life I experienced heart stopping, earth shattering, love at first sight.
What a grand and glorious way to spend a lovely Saturday in the park.
