The second creek

Today's memory prompt from The Red Dress Club is something from childhood.

I thought I would go back to when my brothers and I were running around outside, a lot.  I think one of the few things that helped my parents keep their sanity with 4 children, is our love of the outdoors.

"Go outside and play!"

This was a phrase my mother would say, or exclaim, or utter with exhaustion on a regular basis growing up.  You see, my two older brothers and I were all born within about three years of each other.  Yep, that's a lot of diapers all at once.  Seven years later, when we were pretty self sufficient, my baby sister came along.  So now my parents had a handful of noisy children and a baby who needed a nap.

So out we would go.  Sunny days, rainy afternoons (on the porch or in the garage), summer nights, even snow days - we had the appropriate gear for everything.  A few of our favorite destinations were in the woods beyond our back yard.  They seemed to go on forever, but at that time it was probably about a mile and a half.  To us, it was just about to heaven.

There were two creeks.  The first creek was barely noticeable, unless we'd had a really good rain.  Even with my shorter legs, I could easy jump the creek and get through the woods with boys (my brothers were always quite long-legged).  This creek was just out of sight of the house, but within hollering range of the end of the back yard.  Some days that was the limit of how far we were allowed to play.  If it was getting dark, it looked like a storm was rolling in, or Mom just wanted to know she could call us back at will.

Then there was the second creek.  It took a trek to get back to this creek and it was worth every step.  It was big and bold (to us little rugrats) and it had tadpoles!  There were also gigantic blackberry bushes.  We would bring our sand pails and fill them until our arms got tired.  It only took one or two berry picking sessions to remember to wear longs sleeves for that adventure. 

But the funniest thing that I remember from all of those years ago, is the path through the woods back to the creeks.  I can still picture it in my mind.  At the beginning of each spring, the path was a little overgrown, so we would walk it over and over again to stamp it down.  All the kids on our street knew the way to the second creek.  That's what we always called it, the second creek.  We never needed a fancy name for it, no directions on how to get there, we just knew.  After the quick path from the yard to the first creek, which was pretty open and obvious, you had to go up a little hill and through a series of snaking curves.  I'm sure it was not the most efficient way to the second creek, but it was the one we used every single year.  There were no artificial markings, just tree layouts and fallen wood to show us the way.  I always listed for the rushing water, and gauged just how much further it was to the creek.  It was easier after rain, and sometimes in the late summer I remember thinking it took much longer to get to the creek.  Really, it was because the creek was smaller and quieter, not overflowing the floodplains anymore.  Oh, and it was hot and sticky by then.

We moved out of that house on Sunset Drive when I was in high school and although we only moved a few streets over, there were no more woods or creeks.  I'm sure the four boys that ended up living in that first house carried on the tradition of playing in the creeks, until "progress" caused the the second creek to be transformed into a housing development.  It doesn't matter, because in my mind there will always be that wooded path to the second creek.

M.E.

RememberRED - Sand

This week a writing prompt from The Red Dress Club was sand.  

It conjured many ideas for me, so I thought I would join along.

The neighborhood is like many in the area and is simply known as The Lake by the locals.  It's a community of about 250 homes, with small barely paved streets that fit one car comfortably and two with some practice.  The families that live there have children and pets, both who run freely in those wonderful summer months.  It's that place we all wish we'd grown up in.

And in the middle of it all, is the lake.

It has been stocked with fish, but most of what's in there have come downstream after spring storms, from the fishing club further up the road.  There is a small dock that gets re-built every 10 years or so, for the tiny sailboats some of the neighbors bring down and leave for the summer.  No one is worried their boat will be taken, and they are willing to share with anyone who will show it respect.

Along the northern edge is strip of sand, barely a beach. But this is where is all happens.  This is where lifetime friends are made, where screaming family members cheer on their swim teams, and where the Moms line up their chairs. 

It starts fairly early in the morning, even on the cloudy days.  The kids want to swim and the Moms know everyone who is anyone will appear, so they should get there and claim their spot in the sand.   They have those small, low, webbed folding chairs you see in the store near the floaties and water toys.  They sit on the water's edge, in a curvy line, to left of the guard chair.  They move further into and out of the water, as the sun moves across the sky.

These hardcore beach setters are not just there to watch their children splash around.  They plan yearly community events, discuss politics, and gossip, umm, network in their own way.   I'm pretty sure the world's problems could be solved by the beach Moms, if they were given a chance.  Not all the families in the neighbor have members who join in this tradition each summer, but they all know the ones that do. 
 
The children here learn quickly how to walk across this shallow beach made from pristine yellow sand raked each morning by the life guards.  The sand is scorching, so they dig their toes in quickly as they flitter across it to their over sized towel.  They love swimming to the island and jumping off the boards, but don't mind the "rest period" too much.  This is the time when castles from dreams are brought to life.  The sand is thick and when you dig down just a little, it's still damp.  It packs perfectly in the turret shaped buckets and leaves a solid tower when turned upside down.  Every castle, it seems, must have a moat or river or sometimes both. 

Most days the only break in the slow paced action of the lake, is the picnic lunch at the tables under the trees or the crack of the bat at the nearby ball field.  Occasionally, you may hear a crying child who signals it's time to head home for a nap.

But truly it is a place where although time has not stood still, summer memories are etched forever by the sand.


M.E.