BUCK CREEK: JULIA NUNNALLY DUNCAN REMEMBERS

Remember the swimming hole?  I do.  We simply called ours "the creek." Do you wanna go to the creek, my mother, or aunt, or grandmother would ask, and we would gather up food, blankets, towels and head to the creek, just off from the Flint River.   Lots of sand and minnows.  Scummy bottom in which we'd squish our toes.  An old diving board on which I stood and stood (there's even a photo of me...) until I climbed down.  I never learned how to dive. Julia Nunnally Duncan remembers her creek and what she learned there.  She's offered photographs, too. I'm happy to share them with you.  And if you have your own memories of swimming holes and creeks, send them to me. Buck Creek My father taught me to dog paddle in Buck Creek, in the mountain stream’s deep pool  where generations of children had swum. There a concrete slab— a broken piece of a long-gone bridge— was embedded in the creek bed and jutted out just above the water’s surface. Algae-slick and a trick to climb upon, this slab served as a diving board from which we jumped into the tepid, fishy water. I recall my tenth summer in ‘66 when my father hauled the neighborhood kids and me in his Chevrolet truck to our favorite swimming hole.  We sang “Li’l Red Riding Hood,” howling as loud as we could from the bumpy truck bed into the quiet neighborhood we passed through. Once we arrived at Buck Creek,  my father trod downstream, a bar of Zest soap in his hand. Standing in his bathing trunks, he lathered himself  while we frolicked like Flipper, no fear of snakes or mud turtles shadowing our pleasure. Only a baptism might impede us; if we saw people dressed in Sunday clothes gathering at the water’s edge, we waited unseen on the steep bank, hushed by my father, whose own father had baptized believers in a Tennessee river. We peered through trees to see something we’d all experienced already in our church’s baptismal pool. Soon as that ritual was past, we ran down the bank and jumped  into  the sanctified water— more like pagans ourselves— laughing, splashing, and squirting Crazy Foam on each other’s heads. Julia Nunnally Duncan enjoys writing about her 1960's childhood in McDowell County, NC, which was predominantly a textile and agricultural area at that time.  Her parents were hosiery mill workers, and her family lived in a close knit neighborhood where folks raised gardens, kept livestock, and watched over each other's children. Julia still lives in McDowell County with her husband Steve and daughter Annie. Her latest book is a rerelease of her 2006 novel Drops of the Night (March Street Press, 2011).

Guest Blogger: ELIJAH MORGAN

Today's guest blogger is Elijah Morgan, son of Sara and "Tater" Morgan.  

Elijah was in kindergarten at Cullowhee Valley School when he wrote this poem for

 the Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest 75th Anniversary Celebration in June.  

His mother has many photos of him, and after taking a look at a few of these,

you'll see why.

The Tree Seed of Love

The trees grow by seeds
They drink by root

They are ALIVE
They enjoy the sun

They are nature
They love it and they like rain

They drink by root
Sunbeams make them grow

That is the tree seed of love

The Southern Appalachians are often called "the vegetation
cradle of North America."  I like thinking of
these mountains as a cradle of life.  They hold so 
many different species of trees that I love simply 
saying the names of them over and over.  Scarlet Oak. 
Sassafras.  Tulip Tree.  Hemlock........  

Too many of our trees are disappearing, though, victims of 
pollution and insects that feed on the weakened trees. Young Elijah has already learned an important lesson about
protecting our natural treasures.  Through "the tree seed 
of love," we can find the heart and energy to take care of the world around us.