The swamp story (no groans please)

I just realized today that this month marks the 25th anniversary of my encounter in the swamp. (I know, today is the 30th!). So, I can't let this momentous occasion go by without committing this tale to cyberspace.

I know, countless friends and relatives have heard the story. But a whole new generation has been born, and there was no internet when I was a college student. I owned a typewriter, not a computer. The swamp story did find its way into print--my college newspaper--but it was written by others with a definite slant--the cartoonist drew me being chased by alligators and bats through a murky tangle of undergrowth. And how many people, besides myself, have kept these yellowing pages of the Bethel Clarion? So, here goes--for new readers/hearers and old, The Swamp Story, For A New Millennium.

I was enjoying a warm September day in Minnesota as a senior in college. This was my first year to own a car, a 1975 Pinto. (Later I found out that PINTO means Put In New Transmission Often. I put at least 3 clutches into that baby.) Anyway, my Writing for Children teacher had broken her leg, so we were having class in her home. She only lived about a mile from campus, so I offered to drive some of my classmates to her home. On the way Pablo (my Pinto) broke down. Fortunately, we only had a few more blocks to go, so I left my car by the side of the road and we walked the rest of the way.

After class, I decided to head back to campus and call to have my car towed to a service station. My teacher told me there was a nice walking path that would be a shortcut back to school. Gathering up my purse and books, I prepared for my journey.

Unfortunately, the trek I took soon became mucky and swampy. I lost the main path and found myself surrounded by 7-foot-tall cattails. Water creeped up my legs as I ventured along. I was sure I would come to the end of this nightmare soon if I just kept going.

At last, I gave up. By this time the water was almost up to my hips. "Help, help!" I cried. No response. "Help, help! I'm stuck in the swamp!"

Finally a woman answered. "What do you want me to do?" she asked. "Maybe you could call the fire department," I suggested. (This was in the days before 9-1-1.)

Then I heard nothing. I called out again, and heard another response (later I found out it was one of my classmates.) Then finally, I heard some men calling my name (which I had told to the lady who first answered me). Firefighters, clad in hip boots and other gear, came to my rescue. I had imagined helicopters and TV cameras, but it was just people walking that came to help.

I looked gratefully into the face of one of my rescuers. "Would you take me books?" I asked sweetly. Then I grabbed his arm and together we walked back to the path.

Greeting me at the path was the Lake Johanna fire department, the sheriff, the elementary school nurse from across the street, the woman who had called the LJFD, my classmate ("Suzi, what are you doing here!") and half the neighborhood. Needless to say, I felt a little ridiculous, but relieved that there appeared to be no television cameras (but perhaps a teeny bit disappointed). The sheriff proceeded to interrogate me, later saying that any of the elementary school children could help me find the path should I need assistance in the future.

As I walked back to the road, I decided to head back to my apartment, which was about the same distance from the swamp as was campus. The fire truck passed me (I wondered why they couldn't give me a ride) and I trudged back home, grateful yet a bit humiliated. On my way back to campus on the college bus, I saw my car being towed (I had made the call). That night, I told my story to my friends who were on the newspaper staff with me, and before I knew it, my tale was told before the world (or at least before the readers of the Clarion). A few days later, I heard someone whispering in the coffee shop, pointing in my direction, "Isn't that the girl who got stuck in the swamp?" My teacher's husband and another Bethel professor who lived in the neighborhood cut down some brush so that no one would ever have the terrible encounter I had endured.

I've gone by that swamp every so often, usually on my way to an alumni event at Bethel. But about a month ago Tim (who was also a Bethel graduate) told me that my swamp was becoming a townhouse complex.

I hope they put a lot of pilings under those homes, or there might be another swamp story to commemorate my anniversary.

Till next time,


Suzi