Along the banks of a little stream that runs through Brownwood called Willis Creek, there have no doubt been many interesting events long before anyone recorded them. Some records we have, such as the creek having been a place for quarrying rocks for building in the early days, but most memories are no doubt gone forever. That’s not the case, however, for the memories of one group of boys who made the creek their play place in the high days of their youth. This pack of wild boys left a memoir recording many of their escapades.
Thanks to local historian Frank Hilton, I have my own copy of this delightful record of childhood joys and calamities called Confessions of the Willis Creek Gang, by John Clardy. I laughed all the way through this collection of stories that chronicles the adventures of a local ‘gang’ of 12-year-old Brownwood boys growing up in town during the depression years. It’s full of pranks and hijinks, the sorts of things kids used to get up to before tech took charge of school vacations and Saturday mornings.
During the time of these adventures, two large oak trees grew along opposite banks of Willis Creek. The boys had the idea to string up a cable between the two huge trees (who among us as a child was not moved to some similar plotting when confronted by such obvious potential?) They worked out a plan to create a joyride over the creek. Jack’s mother had a washtub. His dad had a brand new 1936 Plymouth. Wendell’s dad had a cable and a pulley…
One of the boys climbed the first tree, about 30 feet up, and worked to get the cable secured. Now you know things were serious because 30 feet might not sound like much, but up in a tree it’s a good-sized drop. They used Jack’s dad’s hijacked car to pull the cable tight between the trees. Jack’s mom’s new washtub was wired onto the contraption, to serve as a seat for the rider.
“Jack drove that NEW PLYMOUTH to the right spot” the chronicle informs us. “The cable was attached to the bumper. Then Jack slowly drove … and the cable started to tighten. What suspense! Then he started around the tree (he still didn’t have permission). Soon…the cable was tight as a fiddle string. … Nails, clips and a variety of other materials were used to secure the cable to the trees. Mrs.Jayroe’s nearly new washtub was secured to the cable by a sling type mechanism, and the ride was ready to go.
Jack had supplied the car and the washtub, both huge risks that he was liable to pay for when the thefts were discovered, especially since both parents were wronged here. The trees were on Jack’s property. So he was allowed to try out the new amusement first. It didn’t go quite the way the boys had planned. “With a long rope attached to the tub, it was pulled back up to the top of the tall oak tree for the official first launch. Carefully, Jack got into the tub and hollered, ‘Let her go!’” Jack flew down the cable in the tub. “That cable was so tight that the tub (and Jack) went down that cable like a bullet. It was headed straight for the oak tree with a big girth. Jack didn’t have a chance. He couldn’t bail out. He didn’t have time.” The washtub was wrecked, and so was Jack. My guess is when his parents discovered the details of this project, Jack probably got wrecked again.
The humorous tour through the boisterous antics of the Willis Creek gang back in the days when kids ran free through the town, messing with grumpy farmers, playing tricks on folks and generally having a ball, brings to mind so many memories of running wild myself as a kid. My brothers and I had some of those. One time we rigged a series of ladders up a tall pine tree in the front yard. It went up about 40 feet, where we were trying to build a platform. We were caught before the planned clubhouse could materialize. We rode our bikes down to the river above the dam, where we were not allowed to go, and swung all day off the branches of a willow tree into the deep, forbidden water. Trudging home, covered in mud while the crickets sang and fireflies lit the way, we knew we were for it, but we weren’t sorry. It was a big adventure, and we did not regret it.
For those of us that grew up this way, those were the glory days, the pure joy of simply being, found before you’re old enough to worry about what life has in store. There’s something about kids loose in long summer days with plans of their own, not hobbled by a bunch of adults with a lot of fears and cautions. We were free to make or break ourselves in the wide world. Crashing a washtub into a big tree along the creek, falling off the roof of the barn where you’re building a trap for the unwary walking under you–there are dangers along the way, but also deep lessons about the world and your place in it that you can’t learn through watching a screen or being told by someone else. It was hijinks as they say, down on Willis Creek, but that’s just another word for life experience.
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Diane Adams is a local journalist whose columns appear Thursdays on BrownwoodNews.com
