We hurried across the cow bridge at the upper end of Uncle Dutch’s farm.
We were in a hurry because we planned to hunt up to the Bartlett farm this afternoon. This would require us to cross Catching Creek one more time, and that crossing would have no bridge.
Don Miller and I were in the fall of our eighth-grade year. Living on neighboring farms, we hunted ducks and anything else along the creek as often as we could.
Don was a little smaller than I, but we were both stout young men and growing as we hurried along. I had on pair of hand-me-down hip boots. Don was in tennis shoes. That me...