Living on the West End (Mill Village): The Cypress Tree
By Bill Shepard
The cypress tree stood at the edge of the waters of Swift Creek. All of my readers know by now that Swift Creek crawls like a long black snake through parts of Darlington on its way to rendezvous with Black Creek.
There was a space in the little creek that was deeper and wider than the rest of the stream. It was a space in the shape of a large bowl. The bottom was of creek sand, very unusual as there was black mud along its banks.
Just how long this place had been used as a place to swim and splash in its cool, clean waters, I do not know! Beginning as far back as I can remember, and that’s a long time, the place was in use by the village folk on the west end of town. The first I heard it called was “The Wash-Hole.”
Beginning the last day of May, the wash-hole would come in use each year. As the warmer days of summer came closer, the numbers at the wash-hole grew larger.
School being out for summer vacation, the children of the village had more free time to play.
On hot summer days the wash-hole was full of children (boys only) from early morning to late evening. This writer and his two older brothers were there as often as permission was granted. We always had to go as a party of three! Mama would not allow one to go unless the other two were along. Of course as I grew older, Mama’s restrictions began to change.
It was very unusual to go to the wash-hole and find no one there, except on Saturday afternoons when the Milliken Nine team was engaged in a game of baseball at the field that was close by. That’s another story to be written later.
Perhaps the wash hole got its name from the truth that it often served as just that kind of place! It was not uncommon to see a father with all his little boys bathing in the shallow waters of the stream. The father would lather the boys’ bodies and heads real good and then push them under the water to rinse the soap suds off.
After that had been done with each boy, the father would dry them off, put on their clothes and leave. I watched that happen often. Remember there were no bathrooms at the houses on the village and no inside water. Bathing at the wash-hole was far better than trying to bathe in tin washtubs!
Now, back to the beginning. Near the edge of the water, a huge cypress tree stood like some kind of sentinel guarding the swimming area. Perhaps it was! I never heard of anyone being harmed while at play in the waters. Nails had been driven all along the tree bark where the swimmers would hang their clothes while skinny-dipping in the waters of the wash-hole.
I have tried to make this story sound like it was the place to be and it really was! For the village boys at that time, it had no equal as a place of recreation.
I have often given thought as to how many generations of boys visited that spot, played in the waters, grew older, and, like myself, moved away. You can never go far enough to hide from your childhood memories, and if they were made at a place like the little wash-hole, why would one wish to forget?
The story about the wash-hole was the first article, or story, that this writer ever sent to the News & Press to be printed. It happened long ago when I was living in Florida. Why I gave thought to writing the story and sending it to the newspaper, I cannot recall, but I did. I was so proud when my next copy of the paper came and I read the story.
Not many weeks later there was a letter in the paper from a man somewhere in New York. I believe his name was Hilton Trader. He wrote, “I do not know the name of the person who wrote the story about the wash-hole and the cypress tree, but I feel sure I hung my overalls on a nail alongside of his on that cypress tree!”
Imagine if you can the feelings that swept through me as I read that letter. I have kept that paper until this day. I continued to write letters to the editor and was pleased to see them in print.
One day after writing a letter to the editor with the title “The Bluebells are Invading the South,” I received a short note from (publisher Morrell) Thomas inviting me to stop by the office on my next visit to Darlington. I did so. We had a good visit and Mr. Thomas introduced me to all of his office staff. He allowed me to reminisce on and on about my childhood growing up on the mill village.
After encouraging me to continue my writing, he told me this story. He reminded me how the man in New York had said that he did not know who wrote the letter about hanging his clothes on the nail in the tree, but that he had hung his own clothes on that same tree. Mr. Thomas said that I did not sign my letter.
Then he added, “I would not have printed your letter except that you mentioned the name Harmon Baldwin in your letter about the wash-hole.”
As for the old cypress tree, I have a smooth piece of it lying on my desk. Douglas Lee, a lifelong citizen of the West End, had the tree sawed into timbers and sent a small piece of it to me. I cherish it and keep it on my desk. Often I look at it, and memories flow as faces of the past dance before me.
