The “Crick”

Gwen McNamara, Pace Center for Civic Engagement

Honorable Mention

2018-2019 Staff Essay Contest

I remember

…your voice, the soft churgle and gurgle of water spilling over stones.

Running ahead through the tall grass of the meadow, my arms outstretched, I brush the cattails and rush to be the first around the bend to meet you. I know just the right path to wend through the trip-me vines, sticker-bushes, and barbwire left over from when the cows would come to graze and drink and wade in your waters. I sink my sneakered feet into your chilly water at the swimming hole, so dark I wonder if it really has a bottom.

I remember

…sending birch bark floats, twig ships, and leaf canoes on white rapid journeys, imagining fairy-boat captains sprightly navigating the rough waters.

Inhaling the earthy smell of clay and fine gravel, my brother and I turn over silt-encrusted rocks to see what critters we can find, perhaps a crayfish or striped salamander. I smile at the dimpled ripples of the water striders as they masterfully skitter on your water’s smooth surface, dodging our stomps and splashes. We sun ourselves on the angled rock ledge across the way, its contours jutting sharply out of the earthen bank as if an ancient giant tripped and jolted it upright.

I remember

…begging my father to heave another boulder into your depths so we could enjoy its satisfying kerplunk.

Flicking with precision, I perfect my sidearm as we skip stones to see who can make it all the way to the rock ledge or farthest downstream. I search for your smoothest pebbles, just right for tucking in my pocket and pulling out later as secret treasure to add to my collection. I lounge in “the armchair”—a spot just perfect for little bodies to relax, neatly tucked between two rocks where the tickle of cold water would stream down our backs.

I remember

…setting off on an expedition to see where you began, our galoshes and peanut butter sandwiches not getting us nearly far enough upstream.

Listening intently to my grandfather’s tales of the old gristmill, I learn your given name, Alexauken Creek. I wonder what it means, who named you, and if you like it. Not far from the hidden ruins, we toss another rock for Mulligan to retrieve, his almost white fur dripping wet. Each time he belly flops as only a Labrador retriever can, submerges, and somehow fetches the right stone.

I remember

…loud times with friends and cousins, playing after picnics until the sun began to sink toward the horizon and we heard the faint calls to come home.

Dazzling with the sparkle of icy crystalline swirls, your delicate frozen designs are almost too beautiful to erase as we skate along in the winter wind. On hot August summer days you slow to barely a trickle, and fuzzy algae carpets your streambed in a greenish-brown fur. On autumn afternoons the sun’s golden rays make the mosaic of yellow and orange leaves blanketing your surface gleam as if sprinkled with pixie dust. Springtime brings the sweet smell of multiflora rose, forsythia, and honeysuckle, and delicate yellow marsh marigolds that creep over the hill and down to your water’s edge.

I remember

…quiet times when I wanted you to drown my woes, to listen to your whispers and find comfort in your soothing voice and repetitious song.

Dangling my gangly teenage legs over a tangle of exposed tree roots, I sit and sketch for hours, colored pencils in hand, trying to channel enough artistic talent to capture your essence and spirit with a few swift strokes. I yearn to be as bold as you are, to roar with thunderous rage after heavy rains and storms; to be as steady as you are, always staying the course; to be as strong as you are, never letting a new obstacle get in your way.

I remember

…introducing you to my husband-to-be with the anticipation that someday we might show a small someone the same spot too.

Stamping down overgrown briars, my husband and I carry two small someones on our shoulders as we seek out the now hidden meadow path. Time has changed you. The great sycamore that proudly displayed generations of carved initials by your side now lies defeated across your expanse. You curve in a new direction, your pool narrowed, your banks shifted.

I remember

…bursting with joy, as I watched four sneakered feet teeter and tumble across your rocky shore and splash into your cool shallows.

My children’s faces light up with smiles and wonder as they watch minnows dash out of sight and billows of mud and silt turn your water from green-blue to coffee-brown. Peals of laughter ring out in chorus with your voice, the perfect complement to the gurgle and churgle of water, your water, flowing, ever flowing, over stones.