Cowgirl Sass & Savvy

When the hillbillies come home

by Julie Carter

It should happen more often, but none the less, every few years the family gathers for a holiday or some other reason for everyone to come home.

Besides the copious amounts of food and late night chats, the best part of these gatherings is the stories. We are always entertained how the memories vary among people of assorted ages that were all there at the same time at any given event.

Mothers always have their own version of the story and then there is what really happened. I am the older sister with three younger brothers.

Although "young" no longer applies to any of us, we can all remember something unique of a similar memory.

Last night's story was about our Dad's clear and direct instructions to the boys to stay away from the creek in the early spring when it was running high, fast and cold. Of course, they didn't.

With a piece of an old steel rod, they began caving the bank of the creek off. No reason, just boy stuff and because they could. The heavy industrial distraction was sufficient enough that they didn't see Dad arrive, cut a willow switch and head their direction.

Both boys were barefoot so as to wade in the creek they weren't supposed to be anywhere near. The younger one could run like a deer across the pasture, shoes or no shoes, and so he did. The other one, a true tenderfoot, gimped and hobbled his way toward the house fueled by the sting of the willow branch on his backside. Willow-switch moments have no rank and privilege.

The early spring waters of Muddy Creek hold many memories for us all. Mine are similar to the boys in that I couldn't resist the temptation of wading in the sharply cold waters after a long winter of deep snow and long days indoors.

As promised by Dad if I were so bold as to disobey his warning to stay out of the creek, I also made the yipping and skipping trip back to the house with a willow switch encouraging my every step.

The generation that followed found different ways to turn parental hair gray. Now in their 20s and 30s, these young adults find the freedom to share their close calls with discipline, death and worse yet, having to call home for bail money.

While the latter didn't happen it could have, with the borrowing of her daddy's pickup to drive a few blocks. The young blonde driver not only didn't have permission, she didn't have a driver's license. The acronym GTA (Grand Theft Auto) has been tagged to her name for life, or at least as long as her sister lives.

For a family with strong roots in rural America, having evolved from a world of wood cook stoves, coal oil lanterns, crank telephones and living off the land, we've evolved with the rest of the world.

Part of the original Etch-a-Sketch crowd, we now juggle laptops, iPhones, iPads, GPS equipment, email, texts, voice mail, Skype, Revue and Google TV.

George Jetson always was a family favorite. In a way, he's now part of our family gathering.

Julie can be reached for comment at jcarter@ruidosonews.com