More than fifty years ago, there was a drowning in my little home town.
Back then, we chopped cotton by the day, and picked cotton by the pound.
There was no sliding boards or public play grounds.
There was no hanging bars, see-saw sets, or merry go rounds.
There was no swing sets to zip us back and forth through the wind.
But there was deep poverty, and pleasantries were few back then.
There was no swimming pools for us on hot, humid, and toasty days.
There was no nice and safe places to cool off, but we had our ways.
There was water in the creek, and we saw no signs saying, “Do No Jump In”.
There was the mud, the pollution, and the stench, but we still jumped in.
We swung from tree limbs, flashed and dashed in the muddy waters.
We knew we would stink, but we were hot, and nothing else mattered.
What did matter was that one day our friend Bobo died in the muddy creek.
Bobo went under, and we soon realized that he was not playing hide and seek.
We soon ran for help, and all the people and authorities were gathered.
They pulled Bobo’s body from the bottom, and our souls were sad and tattered.