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Show of the rain on the boards. Little jets of brown mud leaped up from the soil loosened by construction of footings. Rivulets ran off the roof and channeled the earth on their way to the swale to the north, where we soon saw a broad muddy torrent. It was bubbling down to form a pond against the grade of the SP, LA and SL. The cloudburst did not last long. But after the clouds drifted away, Father measured the rainfall in the guage: more than two inches in less than two hours! An amazing 2.52 inches. Here he felt was indisputable proof that this was no desert but a true Land of Promise. That grade dammed the riotous run-off in a dozen swales. The water filled the "borrow pits" the graders had left along the railroad and overflowed into the brush on the high side of the grade, making little islands of sand hummocks. Thrilled with the resulting string of ponds, I glorified them with the title of lakes. Our store stood between the two largest ones as luck would have it. That summer I learned to swim. My stroke was no polished Australian Crawl as we then called the fastest style but a breast stroke with a lusty frog kick to shove it along. Although the mud from the raging run-off settled to the bottom, it was there. No waterwings were needed. If you sank you coasted on your stomach on a cushion of slick goo. For the shallow pond my parents urged for a beginner, my stroke was ideal. It required few inches of water, and I could keep my face out of mud I stirred up. But someone with a rifle following the railroad or hiking the trail that meandered along the grade had tossed bottles into the pond and sharpened his marksmanship on them. Wading the pond one time I felt a sharp twinge as though a grease-wood thorn had stuck me. No real pain but after I climbed out I saw blood streaming from a two-inch gash in the underside of my left foot. Without putting on socks or shoes I limped home eager for sympathy and stitches. |