Early spring and winter runoff filled the tributaries and emptied into an already swollen and fast-moving Mad River. Uncle had tasked a 13-year-old me with fetching the water for the dried-out leather bellows for the old hand pump from which we drew our water.
Somehow, over the winter, the Bell jar of water we left buried in the dirt, with heavy rock atop it and at the base of the metal pump, had gone missing. It had always been right where it was left the last three summers.
With hurt feelings, because I wanted to help unload the horses and mules, I grabbed the large metal bucket off the back porch, walked to the river’s edge, and dipped it into the swift flow. Already slightly off balance, the water slammed into the bottom of the container and yanked me forward off my feet and into the water.
The next thing I realized, I was speeding down the river, banging and bumping into submerged rocks that jutted up from the river bed. Some people might say that the intelligent thing would be to have let go of the bucket, but I was afraid to do that because I didn’t want an ass whipping for losing it.
Eventually, I traveled about two miles before I struck a sand bar and was able to pull myself and the bucket from the water and onto the dry bank. I was shaking from hypothermia, but by the time I got back to Uncle’s cabin, my clothes were bone dry, and I was sweating.
“Why the hell didn’t you let go of the bucket?” Uncle asked. “You could have drown.”
“I know,” I answered. “I am more afraid of getting a whippin’ than I was of drowning.”
He walked up to me, grabbed me by the shoulders, looked me in the eyes, and just as tears formed in his eyes, he hugged me.
“Christ, kiddo, I thought I’d lost you,” he said. “Next time, if that ever happens again, let go of the bucket, ’cause I’d rather lose a bucket than try to explain to your mom how I lost you.”
We both laughed.
The Old Blog in the Desert 