Lessons from the River House

            Daddy, my uncle, my cousins’ dad, and a couple of man-friends built the River House.  On the road toward their sanctuary, their equivalent to a woman’s spa-retreat, there were multiple opportunities to get the “Hooptie” stuck and wench out. My memories of the River House are fond in some regards, and nightmares in others. 
             Daddy and the “boys” built a one room River House with a screened front porch facing the upper branch of the Ouachita River, off the road to Sparkman, AR.  They loved that escape into rugged manhood, where they caught fish or shot squirrels for food and provided their own liquid refreshment.  Boys became men at the River House.  There, men scratched openly, belched for the Guinness Book of World Records, pooted in competition, and cussed with abandon.  With no women present, men fell into their ancient habits, those that were forged when civilization did not exist.
             At the River House, I learned to shoot a 22-rifle. I’m a great shot for beer cans and turtles perched on a log. My visits to the River House, though, can only last a few hours because I refuse to tinkle while sitting on a log.  It is because of visits to the River House in the early days that I trained my bladder to expand, expand, expand some more. I hold to a simple rule today- Always check the location of the nearest ladies room.
            My grandmother rarely visited the River House, but one Sunday afternoon, she wanted to take a little drive to see “the boys.” My grandmother was the communion-cloth caretaker of the First United Methodist Church, 4^th pew from the front matriarch of our family.  It was this grand lady who wanted to “go see her son, her son-in-law, her nephew, and friends” at the River House.

                Mother tried everything to keep the visit from happening, but was unsuccessful.  As we crossed the River Bridge, a wooden plank, side-less span, she slowed the car to a crawl and lay down on the horn. I asked her why she was honking so long and loud. Her reply, “Just to let them know we’re coming.” I learned later the Long and Loud meant Hide the Booze and pull up the ladder, Mildred is on the prowl.
                Years later, Daddy and Gordon (my uncle) bought the River House from the other boys and added on a side porch and a small bathroom.  A set of steps with a banister and a ceiling fan for the screened porch plus a window unit to cool the singular room were added. It was those improvements that mother insisted upon so that she would consider spending the night or having a cook-out there.  My brother loved the River House for he and Daddy spent days and nights there hunting, fishing, and being men. Mother could be a fabulous hostess there as Daddy cooked steaks, entertaining couples with her signature grace and ease, though it was never her first choice.
                What did the River House have to do with my girly childhood? 
                 I learned tinkle etiquette, defense from attacking turtles or beer cans, horn-blowing signals, and what a wife’s love for her husband can overcome.