In the 1920s and 30s, a “buster” was a word used to describe difficult children. My friend, Gurney Howard, was nicknamed Buster.

This name stuck with him until his death. I have often wondered if I should send a note to God and ask him how much things have changed since he brought Buster up there. If Buster made it there.

Maybe the Devil thought Buster belonged to him. But I think God investigated Buster’s heart and brought him home.

I just laugh when I remember this unusual kid from my childhood.

His endless supply of antics could not all be listed one place.

However, there are enough for you to understand what it was like to grow up with a friend like Buster.

Buster’s mother, Frances, pointed a finger in his face. “You are not to touch that bow and arrow inside this house, young man. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Buster said as he dropped his birthday present. He had already shot a couple arrows out the back window.

He knew that being caught was unwise.

Frances felt sorry for her highly energetic son. “I know you have been penned up here for more than a week with all this rain. But even if you go out, it’s probably flooded.

"I’m worn out trying to think of stuff for you to do. Why don’t you go read a book?”

The next morning, the weather cleared. Buster raced outside as soon as he washed his breakfast dishes.

As he passed my house, Buster gave the secret whistle. It sounded like a weird bird call. I rushed out with half of my breakfast in a napkin.

We met up with one of the Chambers twins, Rufe, the one Buster liked. All three of us walked together. 

We were glad to be away from adults and exploring the rain-soaked area. Buster always turned an ordinary day in the Michigan woods into a Lewis and Clark journey. 

“Let’s go down by the creek.” Buster motioned toward the normally slow-moving creek. It looped around our farming community.

“Gotta be some pretty high water by now," he continued. 

“Dad said that Miller’s Dairy flooded and his cows got stranded. Let’s go see.”

The three of us half-walked and half-ran down to the creek. Wooden fence posts were still damp and dripping. Ditches lined the lane, filled with rainwater.

Climbing over Miller’s pasture gate had been standard practice for us farming kids. We had to get to the creek somehow. 

Usually Ol’ Snort, Miller’s breeding bull, stood between us and the creek. But today he must have been on the other side of the pasture due to the high water. 

The three of us sloshed our way to the back fence. We climbed over it expertly and continued toward the creek.

A long line of debris showed how high the water had been. Six feet higher than the normal mark. 

Water moved swiftly down the usually calm creek. We walked to the free-range area of the pasture. We side-stepped around as much of the debris as we could. 

The high water had washed stuff down from miles away. A broken sign from the market selling ears of corn just read “ears 10 cents.” 

It was stuck among broken branches, bottles, a used toilet seat, and an old chair. It all made us laugh.