![]() Natural rivers in Florida tend to meander peacefully and lazily back and forth as if they have all day to get from one point to another, like the Suwannee River in north Florida. The Earman River isn’t actually a river, though. The discussions became hot debates that the shark story may or may not have been invented by a parent who had finally lost patience with his kids coming home reeking of the river. There were numerous discussions of the likelihood that anything other than a muck monster or an occasional mullet could live in that brown water. After weeks of campouts and daily meetings where binoculars were handed around along with a thermos or two of koolaid without sighting even the bare tip of a shark fin, we became highly suspicious. I heard once that a shark had been sighted in the river which sent most of the kids I knew into a shark-hunting frenzy. Boys would dare each other to swim from one side to the other, but I, along with the rest of my girlfriends, refused to get that close. I had no idea what was on the bottom and I doubt if any of my friends did either. The water of the Earman River was always brackish and the dark brown color caused parents to spend a lot of time over the years warning us to stay away from it. The rest of us turned to each other, mouths open and eyes wide. ![]() ![]() Even more surprising, my dad did the same. Jack dashed across the yard and over the fence like he was jet-propelled. My dad made a slight move and everything exploded. The rest of the family stood on the sidelines at high noon in front of the saloon in an old western town as the gunslingers stared each other down. Time seemed to expand and everything was perfectly still just like in the black and white westerns we watched on Sunday afternoons on television. I think his exact words may have been, “well, you can’t catch me, old man.” The two of them stood frozen looking at each other for a moment. Jack made the mistake of daring my dad to give him a noogie late one Saturday afternoon. It was a family tradition to grab whoever was close to you when they least suspected it and rub your knuckles on their scalp while screaming, “Noogie!” in their ear. Once, my cousin Jack raced toward the Earman River for salvation. In front of us, the brackish water of the river would barely move, and every now and then a fish would appear as a murky shadow just below the surface like a marshmallow popping to the surface in a bowl of molasses. There we’d stop and after pushing the wagon behind the bushes for safekeeping, carefully climb down the steep riverbank to the cement wall under the bridge and sit in the cool shade under the bridge, dangling our feet over the water where we could feast on all that sugar without our mothers looking over our shoulders making dire predictions of horrible future dentist visits. Taking turns dragging each other in the now empty wagon, we’d make our way back to the Earman River Bridge. ![]() Spending down to the last nickel, the debate would rage over Chick-o-stiks, bubble gum, candy cigarettes, and should we get some of those little wax bottles with the way-too-sweet syrup inside this time or not? Adding a Coca-cola in a big glass bottle to share we’d go happily back out the door, carefully carrying our reward for being good recyclers in brown paper sacks. After setting the bottles inside of the wooden crates stacked outside in organized chaos, and happily collecting our quarters and we’d shop with reckless abandon.
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