Little Vine

There is a little Primitive Baptist Church not far from where I live that is called Little Vine. I had never thought much about that name before tonight. As we drove by on the way from the funeral home, I wondered if there was a "Big Vine" church somewhere.
When we were kids we used to swing on vines. We'd go out in the woods, preferably on the side of a mountain or near a creek somewhere, find a tall Oak with a big muscadine (pronounced muskydine) vine growing up it and before you knew it, we'd all be swinging like Tarzan. We'd clear out the scrub pines and other obstacles from the swing path and away we'd go. Some of the vines we used were straight line swings and others were round-a-bouts. Either one was more fun than a barrel of drunk monkeys.
One Saturday we found a vine on the other side of horse creek and the Oak was situated so that you had to get a running start down the side of the mountain and just before the vine started lifting you, you'd have to raise your feet up high to keep from busting your butt on the ground. Once you cleared that one small hurtle, the vine would take you up about three stories high before sending you back toward the mountain and the tree at about 120 miles per hour.
We all rode that vine until our arms were weak. Johnny wanted one last ride so he back up about ten feet higher up the mountain to get a little more speed before he was launched. Well the vine must have been tired too because as soon as he raised his feet up to clear the ground, the vine gave way and Johnny started cartwheeling down the mountain like a yo yo with a broken string.
I thought for sure he was dead but he hadn't stop rolling good before he jumped up and whooped "what a ride!"
He said he wasn't hurt but I noticed a distinct limp on the way home and he decided to skip Sunday school and sleep in. It's a thousand wonders we didn't have fatalities back then but I guess the Good Lord was watching out for us.