The river in summer was a constant in our lives. The icy-cold black water of the Lumbee flowed through the farm, and the landing was conveniently located a short distance behind the house.

Uncle Walter built a river cabin with a tin roof. There was a propane gas stove and a table inside.

The pump was a hand pump with a wooden countertop.

We’d stand on it to rinse the sand off our feet before sliding on our flip-flops.

When we swam, Mama and Aunt Caroline would sit on the bank and watch us down below on the sand bar.

The bottom of the river was sandy, but could only be seen in the shallows.

The current flowed swiftly in places we weren’t supposed to venture in and slowly in places where we played.

The deeper parts of the river were black. You couldn’t see below four inches, and we knew to stay out of those areas. It would be over our heads, the current swift and cold.

It wasn’t known as Drowning Creek for nothing.

In spots where you could see the bottom, it looked golden. We thought maybe it was covered

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