The Creek - Part One
There is something magical about flowing water. Every kid should have the privilege of growing up with access to a small stream. Hours of fascination can be spent exploring cool shallows for minnows and polliwogs, or floating pretend vessels along in the mild current. As spring turns to summer the tadpoles become frogs, to be caught, examined, and released. Reports of a mythical, monstrous snapping turtle lurking in the gloom below an overpass adds fear and danger. As does ice. When it forms in the winter or crumbles in the spring, the risks of breaking through weak ice elicit dire warnings from protective mothers, even though the stream is still only eight inches deep. Coming home with a soaker is a dead giveaway that you have survived being through the ice. As I entered adolescence, we moved from the proximity of a small tributary, closer to a much broader and deeper channel of what was known as the creek. Here, we could launch a canoe and navigate narrow passages