Dear Friends of the Good Old Days,

The August sun seared its way into our lives that day long ago. Another day without rain -- oh, well, the crops were long since burned to a golden crisp in the brutal drought. Summer refused to give in to the steadily shortening days and the relentless onslaught of the season.

It was a brutal afternoon for a boy of 12. The breeze -- even on the hilltop we called home -- refused to blow. The creeks had been reduced to a few tepid waterholes barely able to accommodate hot, tired feet. Even the shade of the huge oaks surrounding my home refused to give much comfort; the leaves seemed to be losing their lock on life already -- two months before they should.

My pal Chester walked up through the heat, carrying his rifle and suggesting an afternoon hunt. "It's too hot to hunt," I said. "Probably wouldn't see anything anyway."

"C'mon," Chet retorted, "I didn't walk two miles just to sit here and sweat. Besides, I know a place we can cool off."

That hope was enough to elicit permission from Mama. With my single-shot .22 under my arm, I jawed at Chet as I reached the edge of the yard: "Well, what's keepin' yuh?"

Chet was quickly in the lead. Over a couple of hills -- and the dells between -- we plodded. I had been right; neither rabbit nor squirrel rousted about in the August heat. The only sound was the chirp of the cicada and the soft padding of our feet, wary for prey. Instead of directing us toward the third rise, Chet turned parallel to the slope and headed toward an outcropping of rocks. I knew of a cave spring which normally flowed from the base of these rocks; I also knew the water long since had subsided with the drought of the summer, sinking to subterranean rocks.

"I found it last week," Chet said as we neared the cave. A farmer had dug out the mouth of the cave and had run piping back to what must have been a small reservoir. He had built a sizable holding box for the precious water; lowing of nearby cattle told me his work had not been in vain.

At first Chet and I dipped handfuls of the pure, cold spring water; and then we wetted handkerchiefs for faces and hot, dirty necks. Next we were sitting on the edge of the box, feet dangling frigidly inside as we talked. Dare led to double-dare and soon we were in the water -- where we stayed until its iciness forced us out.

By the time we walked home, it was evening. I guess our body temperatures had dropped enough not to notice the heat. That night the breeze still wouldn't blow and the house was just as hot. Still, a friend's discovery had helped me make it through another hot August afternoon back in the Good Old Days.

'Til next time,