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Daley Bend
Daley Bend
By Brewster Martin, MD
“My brother says if we do this too often, it will make us foolish.”
“I don’t believe it.”
After a moment or two to digest what my naked buddy had just admonished me, I suggested from the depths of my 14-year-old wisdom reservoir that we go ask my mother.
Daley Bend was a small branch of the White River that bordered one of the meadows on my father’s farm. Dubbed the bend because of an abrupt change in the direction of the water’s flow which created a delightful swimming hole, it was bordered on one side by a precipitous ledge from which to dive and on the opposite side by a gravelly, narrow beach exposed to sunlight during the Vermont growing season.
It was here that I became aware of what testosterone was doing to my skinny pubescent body. At that decade in one’s life, it is amazing how much someone who is two years older knows. The growth of hair on various parts of our body was checked. The size of the equipment was a weekly comparison, measured by an average-sized sugar maple leaf that was stored under a decaying log (I really think the leaf was shrinking, however, it was good for my ego).
After a bit of gentle persuasion, my hairy buddy decided we should put on our clothes and run up through the meadow to interrogate my mother. It was midafternoon and she was sitting in a rocking chair on the back porch still wearing her morning work apron, placidly shelling peas which she had picked from the garden within the hour.
I posed the question while my buddy froze with embarrassment. My educated, articulate mother never missed a beat of the pea shelling rhythm and said, “If that were true boys, the world would be filled with foolish men. However there is a time and place for everything and when I am entertaining the Ladies Union” (a group of pious Methodist women who met monthly to discuss the sins of anyone who happened not to be present that day) “it is best to adjourn to the haymow or some other equally private spot.”
Mama was right!
After an appropriate number of years of formal education, I became a country doctor and practiced for 40 years in the small town of Chelsea. Whenever an overly concerned mother asked me a question about a beloved son’s habits, I told her the story of Daley Bend.
They rarely made any further inquiries.
Brewster Martin is a retired doctor who lives in Chelsea.