My daughter spent three hours after the early release day last month playing in a park and the surrounding woods with her friends. They had a blast playing basketball and Manhunt (according to her, it’s an extreme version of Hide and Seek). This gave me new hope that the screen has not conquered all. It got me thinking about my adventures at the Creek – with a capital C – it was so much more than a mere creek…
I grew up in Burke, just 15 miles southwest of here, in the 70’s and 80’s. My older sister and I were always looking for an adventure during the summer. My parents refused to join the neighborhood pool, which even in those days cost a whopping $500 a summer, so our adventures usually consisted of getting a group together to explore the Creek.
The Creek was strictly kid territory; we were free to roam as we pleased, as long as we didn’t go alone and returned before dark. My earliest memory had to be from when I was five years old because it was right after Elvis Presley died. Our friend, Maurice, was heartbroken. As he kindly dug footholds in the hill so I could scale “Kids’ Mountain,” tears filled his eyes as he sang sorrowful versions of the King’s greatest hits. As time passed, we spent more time deeper into the Creek, particularly near a very special island. To the untrained eye, this island seemed pretty average -you know, made of dirt and surrounded by water; however, it was a site much sought after. One week it was “Girls’ Island”; the next it was “Boys’ Island.” We would leap down from the high bank with large sticks and write “Girls Island” in the dirt. There, conquered.
As we got older and braver, we ventured farther into the netherlands of the Creek, where the stream gave way to larger pools of water and ferns blanketed the ground. The sun had a softer glow here, and when I learned the word “primordial,” this spot materialized in my mind.
For a few years (give or take – it’s been a while), we ignored the tunnel. The tunnel yawned at the far end of the Creek. It was long and dark, and water ran in a wide path down the middle into the void. One hazy summer day, we decided it was time. We mustered our courage and took a running start so we could jump from side to side as we hopped back and forth across the water. We emerged with soaked socks and sneakers (no Crocks or Tevas in these days) in the sun on the other side of the road. We looked around and saw that we were standing on the edge of Hatches Farm and that our school was just up the road. The veil had fallen, and the magic of the Creek slipped through our fingers, hopefully finding its way to the next generation.
My Corner of the Village 