My grandmother grew up in Bellevue, Kentucky (right across the river from downtown Cincinnati) in the early 1920's. Its pretty much just businesses and streets of old row houses now, with small patches of woods here and there, but at the time it was fairly undeveloped and still had farmland around it. I remember her telling us when we were younger, and she wrote about in her memoirs, about the time when she was in first grade, picking flowers with her friend near a pond not too far from their house. (I know where she lived and on google maps it looks like you can still see remnants of what may have been a pond or lake not far from her street). They had been warned time and time again to never go near the water because it had quicksand patches around it.
They were near there one time picking flowers during the spring, and they spotted a big patch of flowers on the bank of the pond and my grandmothers friend said she wanted to walk over to pick a few. My grandmother said she was not allowed to even be near the pond and she was going to go home because it was getting to be dinner time and her dad would be home soon and she didnt want to get in trouble for even being there. She started to walk home and after a few minutes she heard her friend screaming. She ran back and saw her at the edge of the pond, up to her waist in watery muck, screaming and flailing trying to get out. My grandmother ran home through the field to her house and got her mother, who tore out of the house screaming for anyone who could hear her. They got to her and tried using branches and limbs and anything they could find to pull her out, but the more she struggled and the more they tried to pull her out, the deeper she would go, and eventually the sandy, muddy, watery muck went over her head and they watched her drown. Someone had heard all the screaming and ran down to the firehouse to tell them something was happening but by the time the guys got there she had already gone under. They had to bring in boats and equipment and took several hours to get her body out. My grandmother was one of the pallbearers at the funeral and she said she felt double guilty, first for not being able to save her friend, but also because the ride from the church to the cemetery was fun for her because it was one of the first times she had ever ridden in a car.
My grandmother was 97 when she died about fifteen years ago and she would still get choked up re-telling the story decades later. I used to do a lot of hiking and I would get leery near creeks and swampy areas, I would always think about her telling us this story. I can imagine there are some horrific ways to die, but going down in quicksand or quickmud would be near the top of my list.
They were near there one time picking flowers during the spring, and they spotted a big patch of flowers on the bank of the pond and my grandmothers friend said she wanted to walk over to pick a few. My grandmother said she was not allowed to even be near the pond and she was going to go home because it was getting to be dinner time and her dad would be home soon and she didnt want to get in trouble for even being there. She started to walk home and after a few minutes she heard her friend screaming. She ran back and saw her at the edge of the pond, up to her waist in watery muck, screaming and flailing trying to get out. My grandmother ran home through the field to her house and got her mother, who tore out of the house screaming for anyone who could hear her. They got to her and tried using branches and limbs and anything they could find to pull her out, but the more she struggled and the more they tried to pull her out, the deeper she would go, and eventually the sandy, muddy, watery muck went over her head and they watched her drown. Someone had heard all the screaming and ran down to the firehouse to tell them something was happening but by the time the guys got there she had already gone under. They had to bring in boats and equipment and took several hours to get her body out. My grandmother was one of the pallbearers at the funeral and she said she felt double guilty, first for not being able to save her friend, but also because the ride from the church to the cemetery was fun for her because it was one of the first times she had ever ridden in a car.
My grandmother was 97 when she died about fifteen years ago and she would still get choked up re-telling the story decades later. I used to do a lot of hiking and I would get leery near creeks and swampy areas, I would always think about her telling us this story. I can imagine there are some horrific ways to die, but going down in quicksand or quickmud would be near the top of my list.
