Some of my earliest memories include "going to the river" with my Grandmama and Granddaddy. He'd hitch up his boat to his old blue Ford pick-up, while Grandmama packed a cooler with iced tea (sweet, of course!), fried chicken, home grown tomatoes, and a giant watermelon. Granddaddy would take one or two of us with him to the boat landing, which usually involved a stop at the bait shop for a styrofoam canister of worms.
Meanwhile, the rest would pile into Grandmama's car and head to the river shack. We'd drive down Allison Creek Road, which at that time was an adventure in dodging potholes. Then we'd veer off to the left onto a dirt road with no road sign. We'd take a left fork first, then a right, then another right, and so on. Those who didn't know the way would follow hand painted signs that were nailed to the pine trees at each fork.
A day at "the river" (which is how Lake Wylie was referred to in the days before Jimmy Carter) always involved lots of swimming (or bobbing around with those lovely orange life jackets), a bit of fishing with cane poles, getting bitten by chiggers, and eating watermelon. Ah, those were the days!
If an afternoon thunderstorm came up, we'd duck into the shack, hand-built by my grandfather. It had a small kitchen, a living room, and one bedroom. The "bathroom" was down a path into the woods . . .
At the end of the day, we'd go back to Grandmother's house, a bit sunburned and VERY tired. We'd paint our chigger bites with fingernail polish and go straight to bed!
