Nebraskaland

62 Nebraskaland • January-February 2020 MIXED BAG SCENE: Lawyer's office in Lincoln CHARACTERS: Two opposing lawyers and the perp SITUATION: Deposition being taken under oath. The air is heavy with tension. The person under oath has just attacked the character of the opposing lawyer's client. CLIENT'S LAWYER: "Don't you even start to talk about the morality of my client. We know what you do down there at the river cabin of yours!" [He slams shut his notebook. His face is red with indignation. He rises and stomps out of the office, leaving the door open behind him. Roger (let's call him Roger because his name is Roger) looks at Lawyer Ed (let's call him Ed because his name was Ed) in bewilderment.] LAWYER ED: "Uh, Rog, what the heck do you do down there at the river cabin?" ROG: "Nothing! We can't afford expensive vices and when the day is over, we're far too exhausted to indulge in the inexpensive ones. I can't imagine what he's talking about." LAWYER ED: "I know Cy (let's call him Cy … well, you know) and I'll just talk with him and find out what the issue is." All of the above is true, including the names, but since I am the only one still alive I think I can go ahead and skip the part about "any resemblance ...." Ed did talk with Cy and reported to me later what I had done to offend the general morality. Rumors had it, Cy said, that if a fairly tall person stood on the third bridge railing support on the southwestern corner of the Loup River bridge at Dannebrog, tipped his head slightly northward, and had a decent pair of at least 10x50 binoculars, late on hot August afternoons that person might see some people of my acquaintance – avert your eyes if you are of tender sensibilities – DIPPING SKINNY IN THE RIVER! Well, jeez ... At the time my friends and I were rebuilding an 1872 log house, a filthy, hot, exhausting job. The only water source at the site was a pitcher pump that belched up a half cup of water with every handle push. At the end of the day we were covered with ancient dirt and sweat, hot and weary. And there was that wonderful, clean, cool, sandy, soothing river. There was no one else closer than a quarter mile and, we presumed, intent on driving across the bridge, over the hill, and around the curve. We barely saw the cars so they barely saw us. The operative word being, at least in Cy's mind, I guess, was "barely." Now, to be honest, it was not only during that month of construction that this offense was committed. In fact, I have bathed in that river in every month of the year except January. I suppose I could have worn a swim suit, then exiting the river carrying 10 or 12 pounds of sand in the loose parts, but when was the last time YOU took a bath with your clothes on? No, until it got to the point where age made it almost impossible for me to get to the river's cleansing waters, I was out there lying in the sun and water almost every day for decades. It was therapy. It was reviving. It was an unmitigated joy. Even poetical! Noted Nebraska anthropologist, poet and essayist Loren Eiseley wrote in The Immense Journey, "The Flow of the River": "I lay back in the floating position that left my face to the sky, and shoved off. The sky wheeled over me. For an instant, as I bobbed into the main channel, I had the sensation of sliding down the vast tilted face of the continent." Skinny dipping is moreover an inspiration for many American folktales, this one from my own book Why I'm An Only Child And Other Slightly Naughty Plains Folktales (University of Nebraska Press), to wit: [One] hot summer day a local gent decided to cool down by skinny-dipping …. He left his clothing in a pile behind a cedar bush near the bridge but kept his straw hat on to avoid getting his face and nose sunburned. He made his way up stream and then lay back in the cool, clean water, letting the current drift him back downstream toward the bridge – a practice we still enjoy in the same river, referring to it as "butt bouncing." But as he approached the bridge he heard voices so he pulled himself toward the shore and peeked through the shrubs to find – oh no! – the preacher's wife was hosting the church's annual ladies' auxiliary near the bank at the bridge. That is, between him and his cached clothing. He lowered himself back down into the water and quietly mulled over his options: He could cover his private parts with his hat to preserve his dignity, make a mad dash through the gathering, grab his clothes, and head for cover up the bank; or he could cover his face with his hat to preserve his identity and make the same run. He decided on the latter. So, holding the hat over his face, he dashed among the startled and screaming women, grabbed his clothes, and hotfooted it through the trees toward town. Once they had recovered from their astonishment and regained their voices, one woman decided to defend her family's honor and said, "I can tell you one thing – that was not my husband." Whereupon a second insisted, "Well, it wasn't anybody from my family." But conversation came to a stop when the preacher's wife said, "I'm pretty sure it was no one from this congregation." Roger Welsch is a folklorist, humorist and author who lives in Dannebrog. JOHNNY, I BARELY KNEW YE ... By Roger Welsch k a No, ere for me to get to ying in the It th It o

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