The Day the Pipe Fell — And Other Truths Growing Up Country

When I was a kid — somewhere around 11, maybe heading into sixth grade — I lived out in the country, not far from my cousins. It was the kind of place where your feet were always dirty, the fish never bit unless you swore at them, and no one ever asked where you were going because they already knew: outside.

We had a good life. A dangerous life, probably. But it was real, and it was ours. We played in creeks with water rushing over our ankles. David, my cousin, said, “Let’s get in that creek,” with the waters rushing by, making whitecaps as they toiled and tumbled. The water was up to our shoulders, I thought he was nuts. Then he got in. It seemed okay, so I got in too.

We skinny-dipped when the heat got too much or when the fish wouldn’t play fair. We carried shotguns and homemade bows like they were just extensions of our arms. We also had 40-pound store-bought bows. We didn’t ask permission. We didn’t need to.

Until it didn’t.

That pipe came down hard, end over end, and cracked me square on the top of my head. I didn’t black out, but I sure saw stars. Everything spun. I dropped to one knee, trying not to puke or cry — because you did not cry in front of your cousins. That was the unspoken rule, we inherently all lived by. 

Mark, my cousin, stood over me and held up a few fingers.
“How many?” he asked.
“Three,” I guessed.
Good enough. He shrugged, turned around, said, “My turn,” and chucked the pipe back into the tree.

That was country medicine. That was love.

Mark’s gone now. So is the cousin I was closest to, David — he died over twenty years ago. I hadn’t seen Mark for nearly thirty years before he passed, and I’ll never stop regretting how life pulled us apart.

Now, from 8,000 miles away, I visit those places the only way I can: Google Maps. I trace the curves of those old dirt roads, look for the trees we climbed, and try to imagine if the creek still runs like it used to. The satellite doesn’t show the ghosts, but I see them anyway.

That was a good life. It didn’t come with warnings or helmets, but it came with grit, freedom, and a kind of love that doesn’t need words.

We “didn’t need no stinking helmets,” but we should have. Just a few fingers held up, and a laugh when you got the number almost right.