Ahh the dog days of summer, high temperatures send many people looking for ways to beat the heat, to pools, and beaches across the nation. Behind the joys of summer could be a hidden hazard known as swimmer ear. The infection can be extremely painful causing discomfort in and around the outer ear canal harming ones ability to hear. Treatments include over the counter pain relievers such as ibuprofen and Tylenol, face time with your primary care doctor, to ensure the infection isn't more severe and the possibility of antibiotic drops to prevent infection and other potential damage to the ear canal. Wochit


It was late August in the early 1980s. Back in the Dark Ages, school didn’t start until the Tuesday after Labor Day. So summer was winding down for the teenage rednecks in training I grew up with. We tried to squeeze every ounce of fun left in the dwindling days before the bell rang.

This late afternoon found us at a favorite swimming hole on Okmulgee Creek, near the Dallas-Perry county line. The uniform of the day was cutoff Levis. After several hours of swimming and cutting acrobatic tricks off a rope tied to an oak tree overhanging the creek, we decided to take a break. About half a dozen of us gathered on the bank and started eating watermelon.

There we were, chomping to beat the band and spitting seeds at each other, when a swarm of horse flies descended upon us. Ray Roberts noticed a horse fly crawling around on the back of David Ames’ neck and popped the bug with the end of the wet towel he was holding.

Dave, not knowing the involvement of the insect, took exception. Cuss words were elicited. Punches were thrown.

Annnndd, they’re off!

Fairly quickly everyone was involved. It devolved into a melee of popping towels and T-shirts. The battle expanded from the bank to the woods near the creek. Ankles were turned. Elbows were thrown to ribs. Kicks were snapped to kneecaps. Boys ran bare chested through thick briar patches in an effort to escape or gain some advantage on the furball.

There was more cussing and screaming. Yelps were heard as wet towels and T-shirts snapped and popped on arms, legs and other more personal parts of anatomy. Noses were bloodied. Whelps and bruises appeared. My cousin, Curtis Mott, basically exercised the nuclear option when he slipped a baseball-sized rock into his towel.

He doubled it over and started swinging it over his head, screaming like a banshee. He caught Stan Wheeler a glancing blow to the left shoulder.

“Oh, sorry, Wheel,” he said, with real remorse in his voice. “I was aiming for David.”

Back Curty went to yelling and swinging.

At least one of use ran pell-mell off the 15-foot bank into the creek in an effort of self-preservation.

“Do something with him!” Ray yelled to me, motioning in Curt’s direction.

“You nuts?” I shot back. “You know how he gets.”

We both glanced at the creek, and decided discretion was the better part of valor. We jumped off the bank just before the swirling towel of death came for us. Pretty soon, Curt owned the hill, the bank and any other real estate he wanted. The rest of us were in the creek, or high tailing it to the hayfield.

A truce was called, and we returned to the bank to finish any watermelon that had survived the battle. Things were cool for about three minutes.

“Hold on,” I said, as I walked up to Dave and slapped his forehead with my right palm.

“Didja get it?” he asked.

“Get what?” I guffawed.

Annnndd, they’re off!


Read or Share this story: