Those who’ve not grown up in an un-airconditioned house in the South may not be able to grasp the sheer loveliness of a real, honest-to-goodness “swimming hole.” One features prominently in my upcoming release, Fly Boy, and it was so fun to write!
Swimming hole could mean a creek, a pond, or even a big cattle tank, but the best ones were like this pic from one of the ones I frequented, growing up: a nice, broad expanse of placid but flowing water. Bonus points for not having a lot of snaky overhangs along the banks, and for a rope swing. The cold water felt lifesaving to a kid, and it was just plain fun. Occasionally, their use was utilitarian; I was once told as a teen, “Go down to the pond and see if you can wash that stink off!” (I’d just been sprayed by a skunk).
There were dangers, of course: not only snakes, but the occasional fish hook, sunburn, and the rare but dreaded “brain-eating amoeba,” Naeglaria fowleri. Still, none were enough to deter us from the joys.
My hope is to bring the essence of the swimming hole to the readers (well, until the scene takes a turn…).
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