East Ditch

The house on the hill sat atop a narrow sandy ridge that ran a short way through the Mississippi delta, a plain of  rich sticky soil that extends for miles either side of the Mississippi River. No cool clear streams flowed through these flat lands. There were, however, a number of large drainage ditches that ran through the farms. These were not what you might imagine. No sewage drained into them, only rain water from the cultivated fields. At that time, not many chemicals were used on the crops, so there was little toxic waste collected in the muddy streams.

The house on the hill was within walking distance of the best of these ditches. The best swimming hole in the county was just a few steps down the road. We had never heard of a swimming pool, but surely no pool could ever compare with the cool shaded swimming hole under the bridge. The frogs and fish flopped about, breaking the whispered rhythm of running water. Wasps and bees hummed among the sweet honeysuckle that climbed the trees along the shore. Dragon flies skipped across the surface of the water and butterflies fluttered along its damp banks.  An occasional snake would sun himself, curled around a piece of drift wood sticking out of the water and a rain crow called “Who who” from somewhere down stream.

When someone yelled, “Snake”! the swimming hole would clear out quickly leaving muddy patterns on its surface.

 Kids from Matthews and all around came to swim in East Ditch. We lived so close, we could have swam every day had it not been for my mother, the most firm yet caring woman I’ve ever seen. She was adamant in her determination that we should not, could not, would not swim in East Ditch. She had good reason to be cautious. A fearful disease was spreading rampant across our nation, a crippling disease that caused paralysis, pain, and death, a disease called polio. No one knew exactly how it was contracted, but Mama would take no chances. We would not swim in the contaminated water of East Ditch.

East Ditch was used by many churches for baptisms. Baptisms were usually scheduled for Sunday afternoon. Soon after lunch, cars would begin to gather at the ditch. They parked on either side of the road, many times all the way to our house. People would gather along the banks of the ditch and against the rail of the bridge to witness this special service.


The depth of the ditch was not always consistent. The changing floor of the stream necessitated scouting out a place deep enough to completely bury the candidates for baptism. This was usually done by a deacon the day before. We Baptists believe that for baptism to be valid one must be completely covered by water. 


A baptism in a running stream is an experience all Christians should witness at least once. Except on rare occasions, baptisms were administered in the summer time. The congregation, in full church dress, gingerly walked down the bank of the stream to the water’s edge. Women were slipping and sliding in their high heels, circle tailed skirts and crinoline petticoats. Men were more reasonable. They left jackets behind and rolled up their sleeves. Delighted children ran ahead giggling and sliding to the water’s edge, excited to watch this infrequent event. If there was a breeze, it remained well above the sweltering humid air at water level.


The preacher waded barefoot into the muddy stream, his tie left in the car and sleeves rolled up on his white shirt. The candidates waited in a line for his wave to come into the water. Thus one hot summer day in 1953, I found myself waiting in line for baptism with Rrean, an older sister, and Marie, my sister-in-law.


I was first in line, Marie and then Rrean. Bro. Williams waved us in and we entered the water holding hands. I took my place in front of Bro. Williams. He raised his hand, stated his authority to baptize given him by the First Baptist Church of Matthews, according to the commandment of our Lord Jesus Christ, and in the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit and as quick as you could blink an eye,  I was completely under the muddy water and lawfully baptized. I took my place on the other side of the preacher.

 Marie was next. I must pause here to tell you about Marie. She was short, small boned and a little heavy. I worried that perhaps as soft and fluffy as she was, she might become buoyant and not go all the way under. But, my concern was about to change.

Bro. Williams once again raised his hand and made his declarations and lowered Marie into the dark water. But, he could not get her up! I looked at her lying there. She qualified for legal baptism so far. She was well covered with black muddy water. Her little feet were splashing, trying to gain footing but only succeeded in kicking up black sandy mud from the bottom of the stream. Bro. Williams was still struggling. I glanced at Rrean and I knew what she as well as I was thinking, “Should we help?”

I glanced toward the shore. Surely a deacon would be qualified to help, maybe another preacher was present. No moves from there, not even Horace if he indeed was in attendance.


 Now her arms were making circles, stirring up black gumbo. “Do we let her drown or try to help and perhaps negate her baptism?” We Baptists have very strict rules.


Just when a decision had to be made, up she came, spitting and gasping and shaking her hair. She moved next to me, grasped my hand swaying a little. I took what she said as praise to God. The service continued with the baptism of Rrean which I barely noticed. The congregation sang  Trust and Obey as we came out of the water, once again holding hands to steady ourselves, happy to have followed the commandment of Christ.


As a pebble tossed into a stream creates ever widening circles until it reaches the shore, so, events that penetrate  our lives generate ever widening circles of friends and acquaintances pushing ever to that eternal shore where we, once again, shall join hands as we greet our Savior and friend.

The Box

Every child should grow up in a house that shelters a place of mystery, a place of wonder, a place of dreams. Upstairs, in the house on the hill, was such a place. It was filled with treasures, an enchanting place. I remember a library table cluttered with confiscated cardboard and paper from packaging; worn out books and catalogs and stubby pencils. Almost always the bed would be piled with clean clothes that needed to be ironed. There were boxes of old clothes, pictures, abandoned projects and broken things. Clothes lines were strung the length of the long room, perfect for hanging clothes on a rainy day or for hanging a sheet to enclose a play house.

There was a trunk, a very no nonsense trunk with straps and a closure that locked. The absence of a key and the inability to lock it did not diminish the importance this lock brought to the trunk. Mama told us to stay out of it, giving it all the more mystery and importance. Among boxes of letters, cards and old Bibles, special hankies, unfinished quilts, Grandma’s shawl and braided strings of hair was a small closed box. It was almost sacred.

I can’t remember when we learned of its contents. Seems we always knew. It was Little Glen’s clothes and shoes. Glen died when he was thirteen months old. Mama never talked about him. I guess it hurt too much. We honored her wishes and didn’t open the box until after her death. Inside was a little jumper, a pair of leather homemade shoes and a short memory of Martin Glen written in my mother’s handwriting.

We read Mama’s letter to her baby and wept over her pain and loss. Bobbie and I wept for an older brother unknown to us. The other siblings, wept for their baby brother. We carefully placed the aging articles back into the box and dear sweet Marie, Horace’s wife, picked it up, held it to her breast and said, “This was important to Mammie. She kept it all these years. I will keep it now.” And she took it home with her.

Glen slipped away one evening, quite unexpectedly, into the arms of his Heavenly Father. He died of dysentery, a deadly disease in that day for babies and young children. Home remedies were ineffective and the country doctor often hard to find. The disease was swift and merciless.

He was buried beside our Grandma and Grandpa McCoy in a beautiful cemetery surrounding a small white church in Elbridge Tennessee. The following spring, Mama sent the older children to set out a wagon load of primrose on the small grave.

Life went on. Mama never forgot her baby and life for her was never quite the same. I didn’t know her before her heart was so bruised. I came along six years later, a small, sick, premature baby girl. Mama risked her life to save mine, insisting that Doctor Cunningham make sure the baby was stable before he cared for her.

Many of us have boxed up hurt, disappointments, grief and pain tied neatly, and isolated from what we feel is the real world. Sometimes the pain or longing is too great to share. We do not want anyone to open the box. We fear we may betray ourselves, belittle ourselves, or reveal who we really are. But, a heart revealed endures you even more to those who love you. And your pain is of no consequence to those who do not know you. As for those who would judge you, their judgment will be scrutinized by the Great Judge on that day when all things will be revealed. All “boxes” will be opened and God will wipe away all tears. God bless you all.