Water, Water, Everywhere
By Margery McCurdy Plummer

I like rain but not as much as we experienced recently that almost made a lake of the lower part of our front yard. Being retired, I can, without guilt when it rains drop almost anything that I’m doing and lie on the bed or even under the cover and listen to the rain falling on the roof. I don’t even mind a little far away rumbling of thunder or a light flash or lightning. It’s relaxing for me.

When my sister and I were children, out mother allowed us to play in the rain if the weather was warm and it wasn’t storming. Some mothers of our friends were afraid for their children to play in the rain, thinking they would catch a cold. I think, too, it had to do with the messiness of it, wet feet and having to dry and change clothes.

Rain was magic for us. The silver droplets of water or heavier ribbons of water coming down set us wild. We would put on our little bathing suits and run out the door giggling and running all around the yard, waving our arms and lifting our faces to the sky to catch the rain drops. I looked pretty wild, I know. Maybe we were releasing some childish energy and excitement. We did make a bit of a mess going back into the house, wet hair, wet feet, wet all over but we dried off, sort of. That kind of thing was no big deal to my mother.

I like water in almost any form, but seeing the ocean for the first time had to be an experience I’ll never forget. Seeing a never ending expanse of blue and green or even grayish water edged by white sand left me speechless.

Rivers are pretty but seem to me to be connections crossed by bridges, used for transportation and recreation like water skiing, or boating. The General Jackson on the Cumberland River is well known to people who have been on it on excursions, and the Delta Queen was well known as an excursion ship until its recent conversion to a fancy boutique and upscale restaurant.

I like springs because they seem to be so clear, pure and cold. Dickey Jones Spring, which runs under the bridge at the end of the greenway at Tyree Springs Road where it runs into Honey Run Creek looks that way and at one point was deep enough for baptizing to be done. The Tyree Springs are a good distance away and at one time were identified with signs like White, Red and Black Sulphur Springs. They were considered to be medicinal but, as some said, had an odor; something like rotten eggs and tasted as bad.

Anyone who knows me knows that I like creeks, large or small. Some day when the weather gets warmer, I plan to walk as far as I can on the greenway hopefully as far as it goes (with a few rest stops) where the creek runs beside it. I can remember a place in the creek where we played as children. There was a wide expanse of something like a sand bar or more likely limestone that looked very much like a beach with shallow water rippling over rocks. The area was relatively free of shade and sun shining on the water made it sparkle. This area at one time was called the “Kelly Hole”. Maybe some Kelly property was nearby.

Farther on down the creek on the other side of the bridge was a section called the “Cold Hold”, named that because the water was very, very cold there with shade over it most of the time. It was deep enough to swim in or for a daring two or three jump into from a tree limb or swing into on a grape vine swing.

The “Cold Hole” in Honey Run was often used for baptizing for those whose churches chose immersion type baptism. Inside arrangements for baptisms were non existent, so the candidates just held onto their faith and braved the elements, usually no worse than a rain or windy time. Winter baptisms were uncommon, although I heard one very old retired preacher say that he had broken ice to baptize. It may have been true, but at the time, I thought he was embellishing his story a bit. Maybe not.

Baptizing in a creek is to me still a meaningful ritual, and there is something very moving in the nature setting. Added to the symbolism, is the sight of the people standing on the bank singing “Shall We Gather at the River” as it echoes over the water. It paints a picture of a tradition almost lost.