Cold Run Creek

courtesy of Bing.com

The first hot day of summer always meant a trip to Cold Run Creek.  In Illinois, the word ‘hot’ was a simpler way of saying: stinking, muggy, miserable, too-hot-to-work.  Going to Cold Run “Crik” was the only way to spend an afternoon until the sun moved behind the tall maple trees to the west.

The creek was spring-fed, straight from the bluffs that hovered over the creek.  Water from the springs was clear and icy cold; it rolled over smooth pebbles, and under towering trees.  Very little sun made its way to the flowing creek.

slow flowing, cool water

We would clamber down from the ’56 Ford pick-up bed, and run across the rocky slopes.  Pausing long enough to throw off shoes and lay the towels over the rocks, we raced into the frigid water.

“I was first!”  “No, you weren’t!  I was!”  Then there would be a splash war.  When our legs were numb from the knee down, we allowed ourselves to leap into the deeper water.  How deep?  Not too deep, maybe three feet.  None of us could swim.  There was a deep drop-off under a willow tree, and it was maybe five or five and-a-half feet.  We all knew where it was, where to stop walking. 

Mom and Dad would go over there, and the willow branches hung over them like a sheer curtain.  They could see us, but we could not see them.  I always wondered about that.

One time when I was new to the lay-out of the creek, I splashed over to them, and stepped off into the deep.  My dad grabbed my floating braids and pulled me up.  They all laughed, so I couldn’t cry.

I wonder how many generations enjoyed Cold Run Creek.  How many children thrilled at that first jolt of spring-cold water on a roasting hot day?  How many lovers knew about the ‘deep part’ where the willow tree sheltered and hid them? 

Those are the unanswered questions that float around the world of Cold Run Creek.

If you are hitting a wall for writing ideas, go here! 

What I Saw on the Drive Home

Scraped clean and clear, the sky shimmered overhead.   

Unseen hands had scooped up the clouds and piled them in white mounds over the eastern mountains.   

Water or....

The highway turned from gray to vibrating mirror in the distance.   

The eucalyptus leaves hung low, weeping in the heat, 

 

while the oak trees hugged the ground tightly.   

Not a single bird or bug tested the hot winds, perhaps waiting for the sun to retreat from its scorching.   

California wildfires

The brown hills invite fire to sweep from east to west, eating up the clouds and the trees. 

 

August, you are such a harsh task-master.