I’d grown up going to my great-grandmothers house; the same one where my papa grew up. We called the area “Rawhide,” but we were the only ones I’d heard call it “rawhide.” My papa told me stories about living over there, and I’d just imagined the woods. My mind transposed him into some woods I’d been in.
One day, we were heading up to my uncle’s on a winding road. Rawhide sat on top of one major hill and two minor hills which abutted each other. The three peaks of the hills were arranged in a triangle, and the winding road weaved through the bottom center of the triangle, and back up to the top of the hills. As we reached the low spot, my grandfather pulled over.
“Where are we going?”
“Gonna show you were we played. It’s right down here.” He pointed as we walked off the road, through a thicket. Thirty five yards off the road, it opens up.
“This is where we’d swim.” Didn’t look much like a swimming hole, just wet leaves.
“It was 10 feet deep, and about 15 yards long. Leave’s must have filled it in.” He pushed some leaves out of the water, and clear water sprang up to replace the leaves. A spring gushed in the middle of the hills.