Marilyn Tompkins Bellert, Down to the River

Marilyn Bellert, 2020

For my family in the summers of the late 1950’s, a very favorite place to go was the cottage that good friends owned on the banks of the Ninnescah River. The place was located about 20 miles west and south of Wichita near the little town of Clearwater. The farmer who owned the land leased small acreages to tenants who built or moved their cottages to the river banks. A rutted and winding road through the farmer’s pasture led to the river area.

Our friends’ cottage had once been a two-room affair built by the engineer who supervised construction of The Big Ditch, a flood control project around Wichita. When the cottage was moved to the site on the river, the owners added a wide screened porch on three sides of the building. It sat probably 20 feet above the river and was placed on stilts that were about five feet tall. We had trouble believing that a raging flood could ever reach that high, but sad experience proved that it could and in fact did happen.

The farmer’s road led over a high embankment that shut out the pasture land and presented a lovely slope down to the lazily flowing brown river, sun dappled by the huge overhanging cottonwood trees. The river was shallow through here, having a depth of only 10 to 12 inches.

On one of those summer afternoons, when I was about 14 and my brothers 11 and 6, we could hardly wait to get into our swimsuits and river-wading shoes so we could get into the water. We joined the kids from three or four other families of close friends, some of whom came to spend the day and sometimes the weekend. Sandbars dotted the river – perfect places for the kids to build sandcastles with tunnels and roads. The really big attraction, however, was the sack swing – a sand-filled gunny sack hung from a tree branch extending out over the river. The high embankment, about 10 feet above the water, permitted one to swing out over the water and fall in. With squeals and shouts, children lined up to take the next turn swinging out and dropping into the river. Then they raced back across the water and up the hill to go again.

My brother Dave, who was 11, was the perfect age for the sack swing. He loved it. My brother Brad at 6 was not so confident about swinging out and dropping into the river. My job was to act as lifeguard for Brad and help keep him entertained. His favorite book was To Think I Saw It on Mulberry Street, which we had all read to him hundreds of times. Using his own wonderful imagination, he talked on and on about the animals, people, and bizarre creatures that inhabited the river and its banks.

The adults in our group also sought out their own forms of amusement. The pump had to be primed to start up the cottage’s water system, the refrigerator plugged in, and the food we all brought stored in appropriate places. Mike McKee, then 13, and his dad Eddie gathered their fishing gear and moved upstream to find a prime fishing spot. Others looked for a quiet place to read a book, while some settled into the porch swing where they could keep track of the children and chat with friends.

One of the big lures of this place was the old, old upright slot machine that featured a big picture of Admiral Dewey on the front. A pot filled with change – nickels, dimes, pennies – sat beside the machine. The kids vied for opportunities to play the machine and see the money come rolling out when they “won.” The only rule was that the money was not to be taken, but left for the next person to play.

By late afternoon, tired children gathered on the large, shaded, screened porch around a big old oak table to challenge each other at Hearts or Canasta. The McKees returned from fishing, Mike proudly leading the way with a big string of catfish and perch. They disappeared into a tiny room with sink for cleaning fish behind the tiny kitchen. My little brother Brad was awe-struck by the fish and looked pale. He whispered to me, “Were those slimy things in the river? By my legs?” For him, the Ninnescah was now wilder and more exciting than Mulberry Street.

Moms and dads fired up the grill that sat under a huge oak tree to produce a feast of hamburgers, hot dogs, and fish. Blue smoke curled up from the grill, filling the air with promising aromas.  My brothers looked away when the fish were offered. Perched on the cottage steps, the dads soon had an ice cream freezer going. Small hands took turns grinding the crank until the proper degree of freezing arrived. At just the right time, water, salt, and ice would be dumped, and the shiny cylinder holding the ice cream emerged. Hearty appetites soon put away the food.

As evening came on, the card games resumed and board games came out. Sometimes, we sang or played charades with all the adults and kids joining in. Once darkness came on, fireflies began to flicker, and the kids rushed to find jars to contain them. The twinkle of these little bugs fascinated us.

When we were really lucky, we stayed overnight, sleeping on metal cots with plastic covered mattresses that were stored on the screened porch. Moms brought linens for the beds and tucked in the very sleepy children. In case of rain, beds were moved away from the screens and closer to the two original rooms of the cottage. Where did the parents sleep? Did the parents sleep? I never knew.

In the morning, we enjoyed bacon, eggs, and pancakes before rushing out for another hour of swinging over and into the river, wading, and building castles on the sandbars. Once the adults packed up the cars, they dragged us out of the river, and we set out for home. What wonderful times we had down at the river and with life-long friends.

After several years of heavy rains and high floods, our friends’ cottage on the Ninnescah was irreparably damaged and finally floated away. The cottage may be gone but the memories are forever.

Adapted from a story by my mother, Ellene Tompkins, in her collection, I Do Remember.