Swamp Water Tales

By John Tuminello

This story begins in Bay City, Louisiana, at a time when everyone left the front door unlocked, and car keys remained in the car either in the visor or the floorboards. Everyone slept with the windows open because the only means of cooling was the attic fan or swamp coolers. Sweet was the air of innocence. In Swamp Water Tales¸ author John Tumin

• Language: English
• Publisher: Authors' Tranquility Press
• Release date: Nov 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781959453147

Book preview

Chapter 1

Gone Fishing

It’s just another one of those swamp water tales that happened quite some time ago when we all enjoyed the prominence that was America back when you could equate neighborhoods and community with communication. At that time, everyone left the front door unlocked, car keys remained in the car either in the visor or the floorboards and we all slept with our windows open cause the only means of cooling was the attic fan or swamp coolers. Sweet was the air of trust and innocence.

My parents moved into what was kind of the first type government HUD house, where you had to qualify for the house and then you fix it up before you moved in. The new house was about three times the size of the house we were moving from, and the best part was I got my own room. The tough part was moving away from all the kids on the street that, at the time, had engulfed my entire life. The old white shingled house was in a modest neighborhood with modest neighbors, in which I was in a fight almost every single day. The new neighborhood was a vast upgrade, and low and behold, I knew one of the kids on the block. Frank had lived on Patton Street, the next street over, and had moved out a year or so ago. At least I knew him vaguely. As time went by, I got to know all the kids on the block. Our new house was set up in a court that resembled a horseshoe with the main street connecting at each tip of the horseshoe. It was the ideal set up for playing sports as the inner space of the horseshoe. It was an oval field about fifty feet long and twenty feet wide. Baseball, football, kickball, and other sports that would require a field all took place on that field, or the Circle as it became known.

I’d been living there a few summers and it was a typical summer day when we were out of school and really didn’t have much of anything to do. Typical days were spent scouring the neighborhood in search of soda bottles that would be cashed in at our local convenience store. Back in the day, we didn’t have your typical modernized 7-Eleven type stores, they were more like mom-and-pop stores, and ours was named Albert’s. As a few weeks had passed since school had ended and we had already terrorized the neighborhood as much as we dared, we had run out of new things to do. Every day we would make the short trek to the ditch that was behind our house. It was a large cement ditch with large angled concrete walls and four-foot-wide at the bottom that lead to a circular four-foot culvert that went underground and lead underneath the railroad tracks about thirty-foot into a large vault. The vault was about thirty-foot long and fifteen-foot wide. There we would catch crawfish, turtles, and snakes. We would have to have a flashlight or torches we made from this silver tar we found in a fifty-five-gallon drum left behind by a roofing company back in the 40s. Justin was a younger neighbor kid who lived two houses over from me. We decided to go fishing the next morning, instead of our usual fishing spot, which was the Red River. The river was relatively close, a mile or so from our house, but we decided to make the trek to Lake Bistineau.

The lake was some distance from our house, so we would have to get up really early to make the trip and be back home by dinner. So, we went about collecting soda bottles that day, so we could turn them in for cash that would be needed for the next day, as we planned to be gone all day long. The day’s haul of bottles was above average after cashing out. We then set about gathering the things we would need for our outing. We rounded up our poles and placed new hooks on our lines and gathered up our tackle boxes. They had everything in them we could beg, borrow, and steal.

The next day we were up early and watched our parents head out for work. We had to wait for them to leave, as we hadn’t asked our parents for permission to go. It was always better to ask for forgiveness, which usually meant being grounded, or getting a whopping, or both, but only if we got caught. I guess it’s that way with everyone as a kid. So, with the parents gone, we tied all our possessions onto our bikes, and off we went up the levy, across the train tracks, crossing Barksdale Boulevard, and headed east. Our path led us past all the usual businesses, gas stations, there was also an old faded green house that faced Barksdale Blvd. and looked oddly out of place on a busy thoroughfare. The aged exterior was peeling, and the grossly overgrown bushes and trees surrounded the house. It shown that it had been abandoned some years back. Vagrants called it home from time to time, and I even wandered throughout the house a time or two. Old musty weathered and tattered furniture remained in a few of the rooms, along with bookshelves and a coffee table. The house was in complete disarray from the years of neglect. The books were flung about as if a tornado had taken place inside the house. I once found a scuttle hole to the attic in a small closet. I was thinking there must be some treasures hidden away up that no one has seen for years. I stacked everything I could find to get up to the opening, with a bit of balancing I popped my head up into the sightless darkness and began to look about.

Before I knew it, there in darkness was heard a hideously screeching, hissing sound, it was loud and vibrated throughout the attic. Whatever it was, was quickly heading in my direction. An adrenaline rush raced through me like a bolt of lightning and my heart was feverously pounding, as I caught sight of a large furry animal headed straight for my face. I dropped like a rock, I didn’t care what might befall me going down, it couldn’t be any worse than that big confounded fanged raccoon heading towards me. I safely dropped down haphazardly and regained my composure, as I stared upwards at the scuttle hole. Thank God, the animal didn’t come down after me. The treasures would have to wait for another day.

We passed the house by, and a bit farther up the road we pedaled by our turn to the mighty Red, but today we would not turn, we kept going straight ahead past the old red brick laundry mat with large glass panes. This laundry mat was really unusual, as I remember my parents coming to this one from the old neighborhood. It had a movie theater in the back, where you could watch movies and cartoons while you washed your clothes. The room was painted completely black. I’d sneak in and think it was the greatest. From time to time I would get caught and thrown out. It was always worse when the parents found out.

From there we crossed Cypress Drive. On the other side of Cypress Drive was a convenience store called Swamp City, a real precursor to the modern 7-11 eleven stores. In Swamp City, you could buy the biggest and best balsa wood airplanes I would have or would ever see. It was not just a balsa wood plane with a rubber band propeller it was about three times the size you can get today. It had a wingspan of about twenty-four inches and was at least eighteen inches long. It took what seemed thirty minutes of endless winding, to get the rubber band taut. But the neatest thing was that once you had the rubber band wound taut you could literally place the plane on the ground and let go of the propeller, the plane would coast down the road a short way, and gain speed and lift off the ground, gain altitude and fly for at least thirty feet and then land itself without crashing. The plane was a major investment that would set you back about eighty-five cents, a hefty sum at the time when coke bottles was your major means of income. Swamp City also sold a small box of Salt Peter about the size of a baking power. This in later years, would be used in making our own version of homemade gunpowder. The two additional commodities that we needed were sulfur and coal. As we lived about two hundred yards from the train tracks, they were always dropping stuff as they passed along the tracks, and more often than not the tracks provided us with large chunks of both of them. The trick was to get the chunks into a powder form. This was accomplished with a window screen. Back then all window screens were metal, and so painstakingly scraping the chunks across the screen would yield the power we were looking for. By mixing the three together, you have a crude gun powder composite. A coke bottle made a great vessel to hold the mixture, and for a fuse, we would use a piece of paper, pour the powder along the length of the page and roll it up. It made the store-bought firecrackers look simply pathetic in comparison.

Today, we still had some ways to go, and so, we kept pedaling on with lethargic steady strokes, up and down. Further up the road, we passed the front entryway into the Air Force Base. By now, our pedaling had slowed a bit, just the sound of the chain as it wound around the sprocket, with a monotonous pace of up and down on the pedals. An occasional car would zoom by as we rode on. Across the bridge from the air force base was Bridgeport’s the biggest outdoor shopping center. As we pedaled by, I was always amazed by the base golf course. It always was the prettiest green golf course. The grounds had St Augustine grass and were always cut, groomed, and watered. Half of the kids I went to school with were air force brats. I remember the year before, one of the kids I went to school with, hiding besides a house on the golf course with his baseball glove, and as one of the officers hit a nice high drive from the Tee box, Bill sprinted across the course and caught the ball. The officers began yelling obscenities at him, but he just kept running until he was between the houses and out of sight, never to be seen again. From the front of the base entry, we were headed down a long stretch where the city life ended except for a few large farmhouses along the way. We pedaled along and talked about building tree houses in the pear tree and the pecan tree, building forts in the honeysuckle fence line that were near the pear tree, and as the movie The Great Escape had come out, we talked about digging our own tunnel system. With each fort, we would throw out these grand plans and designs that would make this the best fort ever.

Now a half hour into our trip we came along a long row of small box houses next to large fields of cotton that extended back as far as the could see. There were about nine houses still standing and were in poor shape, and they had not seen a coat of paint in what seemed forever. The windows had no shades and most of the panes were missing. The small houses were actual slave homes. You know it still stirs the soul to think of all pain and suffering that transpired there, and here was the last sad reminisce still standing and calling out Remember Me! They had stood the test of time and were now monuments to reflect upon. But we were young and naïve about those happenings, we talked about stopping off and rummaging through them, but they were on private property, not that that would have stopped us, but we still had a good way to go before we reached the lake, so we kept pedaling on with steady up and down strokes, promising to return before the summer was over and pay the homes a visit.

At this point, we crossed the ever-changing cotton fields, to cow ranches, and back again. We rode along rusted bob-wired fences with cattle in the far distance dotting the landscape. As we pedaled along talking, off in distance we could see the old church steeple. That was a good thing for that was the resting point. There was an old faded red barn that had been converted into a convenience store of sorts. There was an uneven weathered canopy that stretched the length of the side of the barn. The entryway had a large tattered door with a rusted half-rotted screen door. As always, there was soda pop signage that was screwed diagonally across the screen door. The front door was wide open to let what little breeze there was into the store. The place had a smell associated with old wood floors, walls, and wooden roofs. There we could get cold coke and a candy bar to eat. The proprietor of the store was a tall portly man in faded overalls with a large mole on the left side of his nose, black-framed glasses, and had three front teeth missing. Those that remained were dinghy brownish yellow color from the years of chewing tobacco. He stood behind the faded and well-worn counter, small beads of sweat formed along his forehead, as the store had one old antique fan in the corner roaring away for cooling. Although he had a menacing-looking face his disposition was rather of a gentle soul. We sat outside the store looking at the church steeple drinking an RC cola. Back then the RC was a larger bottle and had more cola in them than your regular Cola bottles, and we were all about getting our money’s worth this day. The Baby Ruth went down well with the cola.

As we drank our cokes, we could see across the thoroughfare where the church had burned down, years and years ago, they say it was hit by lightning and all that remained was a red brick fireplace steeple. It was a couple stories tall and was situated in the middle of a cotton field. Nothing else remained, but it sure got our curiosity up and maybe on the way back, if we had the time, we would stop by and give it a visit. It was about two hundred yards from the road, and we would have to walk through the rows of green cotton plants to get to it. After resting underneath, a tall cottonwood tree next to the barn store, we picked up our bikes and headed out again. This was the turning point where we would head north to the lake. Within minutes we would pass the church steeple, and it would not be long now.

Lake Bistineau was a rather large lake, and the water was clear and dark. There was a single road that led into and out of the lake where we were headed. There were tall pines and large cypress trees everywhere you looked. Gray moss grew heavy in almost all the cypress trees and quite a few pine trees. The moss had a unique characteristic about it. If a tree got the moss, you could say the tree got the cancer, it would take time, but that tree would die in time, all trees with moss would die before their time. The lake itself resembled the trees above as if a reflection of the moss that covered trees reflected below the water line with large thickets of green slimy algae that covered the shoreline some ten feet out or so. The water in the summertime was a literal maze of the green ooze and made the perfect place for fish to live and grow as well as snakes. Water moccasins were really prevalent, but so were the copper heads. Naturally, we feared both, and we both knew people that had been bitten by them. The closer we got, the faster our pace became, no longer the methodical pedaling up and down, we now pedaled with a spark of exuberance the last hundred feet or so to the boat house. Quickly dismounting the bike and hurriedly unfastened our poles and tackle boxes. We made our way to the outdoor shop at the lakeside. Justin’s dad had the paddles stored there and we could also buy chips, cokes, candy bars, and the famed grass shrimp. Within minutes, we had our supplies, and down to the water’s edge we headed, where the boat awaited its excited young lads. The weather was perfect, the sun was shining, and clouds dotted the horizon. Loading the boat with our treasures, and with a quick push, we were off. There is nothing like the first minutes afloat, fresh with energy and filled with the spirit of adventure, we paddled along for a short distance as the smell of the lake air wafted in the cool breeze underneath the canopy of cypress trees, and us all the while talking about the latest stories, we heard about the fish that were caught, but what really fanned our desires, were the tales of the most magnificent fish that been hooked but had gotten away. We now could see and hear the birds chirping and singing from tree to tree, giving warning to our approach. The clouds were the large white puffy ones and gave us shade from time to time, while we slowly paddled onward.

We paddled around the point and past the fenced-in swimming area. The fence was a heavy-duty cyclone fence with large creosol poles that had been driven into the lake bottom and people would from time to time hang the slimy algae and moss on the fence to dry. It was really an ugly sight to see the newly adorned fence art. Around the last pole and we were headed towards the dam. It does not take paddling long to get old and we would stop along the way, drifting ever so slowly about, then we’d drop our lines in the water and pulled in a few Brim. They were nice size and fresh brim is always good eaten. After a few good ones, we would man the paddles and glide along…we stopped about a hundred feet from the dam, where tales of dubious grandeur had taken place. This was the spot where both the young and the old, hob knobbed with the fishing Gods. It was time to drop anchor and break out those gems of ours grass shrimp.

The boat had one of those old-fashioned anchors, the kind people get tattoos of whereas it has a long straight stem, and it curves upwards with arrow points. It was attached to the boat with a small rope that Justin’s dad had just purchased. Silently, Justin lowered the anchor over the side some twenty feet or so. Puzzled I asked, what the heck is that all about! Justin’s said, his Dad did not believe in cutting ropes, and scolded him if he did. I laughed and said, could not you have lowered half the rope and tied it off? Justin just smiled as we both grabbed our poles. It was time to try the grass shrimp out in the deep water and see if these were really going to be the gems we had thought they’d be. Not another boat was around to be seen. Now that we stopped, the bugs were beginning to buzz around us while we went about our business getting the proper hooks on our lines, baiting the hooks, and just relaxing as we fished. Nothing really special happened. We would catch one or two, get em on the stringer and move a little closer to the dam. With each move to the dam, the fish were getting bigger and bigger. At first, we were catching brim, as we drifted, we started catching perch, moved further along we began catching gaspergouls and they were large and putting up a good fight. We laughed, joked, and chided one another about who had the biggest. In that moment, it seemed all was right with the world. The grass shrimp was the cat’s meow for catching fish and we could do no wrong. With all the catching and baiting we hardly even noticed that we had drifted about twenty feet to the dam. No matter to us, the fish were getting bigger and bigger, a one-pounder at first, and then two-pounders. We were both fishing in the area of the anchor, being careful not to hook the anchor when both of our poles went taut all at once. I looked at Justin and called him a dumbass, cause he had hooked my line. Of course, a quick dumbass was fired right back and said it was me that had caught his line. After mincing a few choice words with one another we noticed that the boat was beginning to spin around. Slowly at first, straightened, and then it began precariously heading towards the dam. We both just sat a little bewildered and didn’t say a word just looking at our lines and the anchor rope all had gone taut. I shouted out I snagged a big one! Justin then yanked up on his pole and said not if he pulls him in first, and he began pulling with all he was worth, and I fell in suit with him. His line snapped first, and before I could say, he’s all mine, my line snapped as well. That is the saddest sound a fisherman can hear. Much to our chagrin, the boat was still moving towards the dam and even worse, water was beginning to slosh over the back end of the boat. Whatever it was, must have swallowed the anchor and was headed towards the dam and was taking us with it. We weren’t moving very fast at first but as we picked up a little speed, the water was really coming over the back end as we were heading ever closer to the dam. By now we had enough water in the boat that the tackle boxes were floating, first, my box turned over, and then his. Lures and bobbers were floating around our legs and with the reflections of various hooks glistened at the bottom of the boat and made this a literal floating hell. By now panic had set in, it was as we were dodging floating land mines and punji sticks on the floor of the boat, as we scrambled to get to the back where the anchor was tied off to the boat. Justin got there first and was working feverishly to get the knot undone but with the anchor line being so taut he could not get it to budge. We were getting closer to the dam and a deluge of water was coming over in earnest at the rear end of the boat.

At that moment crisis mode had kicked in, glancing around I saw a filleting knife half floating at the front end of the boat. I was headed that way and was frantically hollering to Justin to catch the knife when I tossed it to him. By now the boat was half full of water and things were not looking good for us, if we went over-board, we stood a really good chance of getting sucked under by the currents. I reached the knife with a couple of really nice lures in both legs, grabbing the knife on my first swipe I had it sailing to Justin. It was as if time was standing still for a brief moment, the clouds stood still against the light blue sky while the knife gracefully floated in the air and sped up to the light speed once Justin caught the knife. With a quick slash and a loud twang resonating from the severed rope, and we were free. The boat rocked ever so slightly, as it was damn near full of water.

Disaster averted, we sat in the boat, water to our hips and flabbergasted, just staring at one another for a long moment when over the silence we heard laughter. An old frumpy looking old man, with a long white bread and a tattered straw hat, was fishing on the far side of the dam, laughing handedly said Yem boys lucky dat one gets away he laughed until he began to cough, and stopping just long enough to say, Yem boys bess gets a bigger boat and started laughing once more.

We grabbed the floating paddles and headed towards the closest shoreline. If you think paddling a boat is hard when it’s empty, try paddling one almost full of water. First order of business was to remove the lures stuck in our legs. The old man was laughing again and yelled it looks like you done catched yourselves. It was hell having him add insult to injury. Slowly pulling the boat up on the shore a bit, and struggling a bit we turned it over, we lost almost everything we had