Back in the Hills

   I grew up in the country - really far out in the country.  It was a running joke among our school friends that our address was 40th and Pumb meaning 40 miles from nowhere and plumb out in the sticks.  Another joke was being asked if we had to have sunshine piped in to our house.  We took it all in good fun.  We loved our home and were secure in who we were - country kids.  My sister, brother, and I are the children of good, decent, hardworking people who wanted us to grow up to be good, decent, hardworking people.
   While growing up I didn't appreciate nature's beauty that surrounded me daily.  It was simply "home."  Our farm was surrounded by other farms and those farm families were friends of our parents and their kids were our friends and playmates.  Our families socialized often.  Most Saturday nights there was a card game at someone's house.  We kids would play outside until darkness drove us in.  There was always popcorn, koolaid, and chocolate cake.  Sometimes we had homemade ice cream or watermelon.
   We were never wanting for playmates and we had an entire country side in which to explore and play.  Rough dirt roads were our bike paths, stands of hickory and oak were our jungle gyms, and lazy flowing creeks were our swimming pools.  After a long day of playing it was time to head to someone's house for a snack.  It might be our house or someone else's house and the snacks were usually peanut butter, crackers and a glass of water but it tasted good to us.  Sometimes we found our own snacks - pears from our pear tree, blackberries, plums and huckleberries.
   As much fun as we had playing on our farms we had an even bigger playground at our disposal.  I grew up very near the Buffalo River.  It was not yet a national river so we had free rein to the joys of playing in the river.  This is where we learned to swim.  Our dads would hold us up as we learned to float and keep a close eye on us as we advanced from dog-paddling to swimming.  We laid on our bellies and drank cold water from an artesian well which we referred to as "the boiling spring."  We climbed on the bluffs and rocks and played king of the mountain and we watched for snakes - cottonmouths and water moccasins could be lurking about.
   My home was also in close proximity to the White River.  Its cold, fast flowing water wasn't meant for swimming but we could fish for the trout that were plentiful there.  Our dads would put corn on our hooks and help us land the fish.
   On many Sunday afternoons we would meet up with a couple of other neighbor families and head for what we called "back in the hills."  What this refers to is the rough, rugged, picturesque area that lies between the mouth of the Buffalo River and where it flows into the White River.  This is the land of my ancestors.  The road that led to the river was nothing more than an old wagon road.  We would load up a truck or two with all the kids in the bed of the truck - and yes we all survived to adulthood.  The trip took quite awhile because the road was so rough and we would be bounced and thrown around in the truck bed - but we loved it.  We would spot big lizards sunning on flat rocks. We might see snakes, ground hogs, squirrels and all sorts of animals.
   Once we got to our designated area - it could be Cedar Creek, Cabin Creek, or some other spot - we would spend the afternoon swimming, fishing and playing.  Our moms would unpack the picnic lunch they had brought and we would eat what we thought was the best tasting food ever.  As evening approached we would head back home.  Many times we were sunburned (who knew what sunscreen was), loaded down with ticks, chiggers, and poison ivy.  All this would be dealt with at home by being put in the tub with a little Purex thrown in.  Riding home we would point out constellations and the milky white spiral arm of the Milky Way.  We didn't know how fortunate we were.
   The time of our youth went by quickly and most of us left home to pursue our dreams. While I visited my parents' farm often I never returned to "back in the hills" until recently.  Forty three years had passed and I began to feel a pull to return.  The Buffalo River is now a national river and the National Park Service owns much of our old playground.  I wasn't even sure where it was allowable to drive or even walk but I was feeling a strong pull to return to the place of my ancestors.  My husband, who had never been there, and I set out one Sunday afternoon.  We began on the familiar road near my parents' farm but soon it all changed.  When had this road been smoothed and covered with crushed rock?  Who do all these homes belong to?  It was all changed and I found myself using Google Maps rather than my memory to navigate.  The vistas are still breathtaking, some of the big flat rocks are still visible but not much else looked the same.  I had wanted to point out landmarks to my husband but where was the Bonnie Blue Gap?  Where was Hathaway?  The old rock fence?  I felt robbed!  I went home so deflated.
   I felt sorry for myself for a while and then I had an idea. Why not make this trip again with my Mom. Her memory is sharp and she will be able to point out all the landmarks.  My brother has stayed in the area and been a part of the transformation of this area.  He will know where all the old childhood places are.  So now we have made plans and in a few weeks we will be making the trip back "in the hills."  I am eagerly planning my contribution to the picnic.  I will video my mom as we travel so that we will always have a record of the trip.  I hope someday to be able to bring my grand-kids and show them the places of my childhood - "back in the hills."