June 1, 1947

Jay was just getting used to having a father around.  Jay had been born in August of 1941.  The attack on Pearl Harbor was slightly less than four months later.  His father already was a twenty-year veteran when the war broke out and had to leave his family for various duty stations before being deployed to Europe.  After the surrender of the Axis powers, he had been assigned duties in France for a few months before returning home.  His father was considered old for a first time father and was then separated from his newborn son for the next five years, so this father and son business had taken a while for both parties to get used to.

Please Daddy, you promised that you would.  Ronnie and Donnie want to go too, please!  Ronnie and Donnie were two brothers who lived across the street from their house on Dearborn Avenue.  Jay and Ronnie were the same age.  Donnie was two or three years older but was mentally the same age.  Donnie was what was politely referred to a mentally retarded, but no one in this group of street corner cowboys even knew what that was.  They just played and had a great time.

Jay always pretended to be Roy Rogers and Ronnie preferred Gene Autry.  Donnie’s favorite cowboy was Gabby Hayes, and he did a pretty good imitation of the famous sidekick too.  They each had cap pistols and holsters, cowboy hats, and stick horses.  The stick horses were actually old straw brooms turned upside down.  They rode like the wind all over the neighborhood chasing outlaws and always shot them down when they found them.

Jay’s father had promised him that they would hike out to Lost Bridge one day.  His father was due to retire from the army very soon, and Jay was concerned that he would get busy and forget or no longer have the time for the outing.  Having spent 30 years in the army, the last thing that his father wanted to do on his day off was go hiking.  But, when he looked in his son’s eyes, he couldn’t say anything else but OK, Saturday morning!

Lost Bridge was a small one-lane bridge that crossed East Cache Creek to the Indian reservation about two miles east of town.  The walk was pretty flat and a relatively easy hike for three young boys to make.  The total hike would be about eight miles with a picnic and some fishing in the creek as a halfway rest stop.  The area was heavily wooded with elm and hackberry trees that hid the bridge from sight, hence Lost Bridge.  Cache Creek was one of the few creeks that normally had water year round so was a likely spot for young boys to get a bite from a hungry fish.

When the first light of morning began to filter through Jay’s window he catapulted out of bed.  In honesty, he had barely slept that night from excitement.  His mother was already stirring and fixing her two men a good breakfast.  I don’t want you getting weak out there and passing out!  The aroma from the kitchen was almost too much for Jay to stand.  Momma was fixing waffles!  The aroma got his father’s attention too, and the two explorers were soon spreading butter and pouring maple syrup over plate sized waffles and crisp bacon slices.  His mother then went to the front porch to retrieve the morning paper.  She discovered Ronnie and Donnie sitting on the front porch waiting.  Soon, there were four explorers elbow deep in waffles and bacon.

Jay was bringing his toy saddlebags to carry his critical supplies:  a pocket knife that he received from his uncle, a small pocket compass, fishing hooks, bobbers, and a spool of fishing line.  His father had packed his military backpack with the picnic lunch, a small hatchet for fishing poles, and a small first aid kit.  Ronnie and Donnie came with the clothes on their backs.  Donnie had brought his stick horse.  Everyone was equipped with a canteen, courtesy of Jay’s Mom.

At ten o’clock fed and properly equipped, the caravan started their walk east on Dearborn.  Donnie had appointed himself as scout.  He would ride his stick horse at a gallop for a block ahead then turn to gallop back and report that the way was clear.  Amazingly, he kept this pace for the entire outbound trek.  Jay and Ronnie walked with Jay’s father, who was setting a pretty good pace.  The pace was partly to stay in better contact with the galloping Donnie, but also to insure that the party finished tired enough that they would not be asking to go again anytime soon.

An hour and a half later they turned north on the narrow road to Lost Bridge.  Jay’s father was the only one of the crew that was ready and looking forward to a rest; the boys were, if anything, more energized than when they had left. As they approached the bridge, Jay’s father began surveying the area for a good picnic site.  The boys charged at a full run to the middle of the bridge.  The old bridge was seldom used any more since a new road had been built leading to the Indian Hospital.  Finding a nice clearing where the shade had inhibited the growth of grass and was free of poison ivy, Jay’s father began to prepare the picnic spread.  Hey! Come and get it or I’ll feed this to the squirrels!  The sound of hoops and hollers and stampeding boys guaranteed that that option would not be necessary.

So far, it had been a very good day and Jay’s father was pleasantly surprised at how much fun that he himself was having.  While the boys were finishing their Peter Pan peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches, strawberry coolaid, and potato chips, Jay’s father found an elm sapling and cut three straight branches.  Green elm branches were flexible, strong and made excellent fishing poles.  He cleaned the branches of small sucker limbs and strung the poles with fishing line, hooks, sinkers, and bobbers.  The evening before he had dug a few dozen night crawlers from the small vegetable garden in the back yard of their house.  He then sat down and showed the boys how to bait their hooks without getting stuck.  Then, they were ready to try their luck.

Lost Bridge was a relatively low bridge.  Cache Creek was a free flowing tributary to the Red River and not accustomed to much traffic.  So the boys could easily toss their lines over the side and learn the art of patience that fishing teaches.  Ronnie got the first nibble, but jerked his line too quickly and lost his bait.  Jay’s father cautioned him to wait until the bobber had disappeared into the water to set his hook.  Soon both Jay and Ronnie had hauled in their first sun perch.  Donnie, on the other hand was restless and kept pulling his line in and changing locations.  Patience for Donnie was a more difficult concept.

Then both Jay and Ronnie both snagged a fish at the same time and Jay’s father had his hands full trying to assist both boys.  Jay had hooked a small channel catfish, which had to be handled with care.  Ronnie had hooked a larger carp, which was taxing both his and his poles strength to haul in.  While engaged in coaching each of the boys, their excitement was interrupted by a sudden scream. Ow! Thumpin bit me!  Donnie, seeking a better location had left the bridge and was making his way down the slope to the creek bank.

Jay’s father instinctively vaulted over the rail of the bridge and was quickly by Donnie’s side.  He swept the boy up in his arms and carried him hurriedly back to the bridge.  Where were you bitten? He asked.  Donnie pointed at his right leg.  There they were, his worst fear, two bleeding punctures about three quarters of an inch apart.  He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and tied it tightly around Donnie’s leg above the bite.  As he did this he told Jay to get his pocketknife from his saddlebags.  Now Donnie, this is going to hurt like the blazes, but I know that a good scout like you can take it, OK?  Donnie blinked back the tears and nodded his head.  Gabby Hayes would have been proud!  Jay’s father then made two cuts with the pocketknife forming an X shaped wound on the boy’s leg between the punctures.  Then he began the process of sucking and spitting the poison and blood out of the wound.

This entire process had taken only a few minutes.  Jay’s father then loaded Donnie piggyback and told the boys to grab what they could carry and follow him. Jay grabbed his father’s backpack and Ronnie got the saddlebags. The all started the two-mile run back to town.

At forty-six years of age, a two-mile run is no easy task, and Jay’s father thanked the regular morning drills and PT that had kept him in the right physical shape for this moment.  On the way back he kept running his memories over and over again.  He had never heard a rattle.  Either when Donnie was bitten or when he tumbled down the slope to retrieve him.  Consequently a rattlesnake, the most deadly poisoness species of this area was not the most likely villain.  Cottonmouths had never been seen this far north.  He had been told that the altitude here was just above their comfort zone, so the cottonmouth water moccasin could also be likely ruled out.  That left the copperhead as the most likely source of the bite.  Copperheads are extremely aggressive, but their poison is not as toxic as other pit vipers.  However in the case of a small boy, that rule went out of the window, so it was extremely important to get Donnie to a hospital as soon as possible.

Just inside the city limits was a lumberyard.  They burst into the office begging for the use of the telephone.  Within a few minutes, and ambulance was dispatched from the hospital.  Donnie rested quietly, playing the tough company scout to the hilt.  He would carry the scar of that ugly X long after he had forgotten how he got it.  But, Jay never forgot the braveness of his friend or the deep respect for his father, that he had gained that day.