This past Saturday was one of the highlights of the summer: a huge annual party on the Brandywine that involves a lavish cookout (turkeys, hams, and chickens on the grill), cut-throat volleyball, live music, and a truly amazing variety of guests.
The host arranges for guests and tubes to be transported a few miles upstream in a large cart pulled by an ancient pickup so they can float back down. The weather could not have been better this year (we'll never forget being on the water a few years back when a sudden, violent thunderstorm blew in) and for us, the 90 minutes on the river was heaven, with ducks, rapids, dragonflies, red-winged blackbirds and that marvelous earthy "creek smell."
Not so much for three of our fellow guests, though. The young women from Jenkintown were strictly city mice; clambering into a trailer, climbing over a fence, and then sidestepping horse manure and nettles while tromping through a pasture to the creek were foreign activities for them.
When we got to the steep bank, they inched downward and then shrieked as they slid the last yard into the soft creek bed.
"Oh my God! It's quicksand!" cried one.
"My new sandals are ruined!" screamed another, almost in tears.
The third girl a lost a flipflop completely in the mud; though we all searched, we couldn't find it.
One pal of ours who normally floats down the river in quiet contemplation could not resist teasing the girls a bit, making reference to snapping turtles and alligators and then telling them not to worry, there were only two kinds of poisonous spiders in our area.
One of the girls was clearly accustomed only to swimming pools, because she had serious doubts as to whether the water in the Brandywine was sanitary. "How can they put chlorine in it?" she asked.
It is an understatement to say that the trio did not enjoy their day. And as we got out of the water, I suggested to one of the girls that she should save an old pair of sneakers to wear next year.
She gave me a totally blank look, like "a return engagement" was not likely.
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