Don't you love old creeks?
They wander all over the place with no direction in mind, and if something's in their way, they just scoot around it and carry on.
We have one of those in southern Ontario. It's called Catfish Creek - was named by some early settlers who'd probably never seen so many whiskered fish in their lives.
I never knew anyone who ate those things. You couldn't put something on your plate that might meow at you.
Looking at the width of the creek and flat land around it, then at the steep, high cliffs beyond, you could see that the Catfish Creek was at one time something to be reckoned with. A river - a raging river.
But even in its lesser creek stage, it could drown a man.
There were deep holes and quicksand banks, and in the Spring thaw, the water, as cold as ice, rocketed along, ripping up bushes and heaving stones. It could pull you under in a second.
Parts of it, though, were relaxed and safe places to swim in the summer and skate on during the winter.
Pussy willows grew there and willow trees and ferns, sumach and pines. So did the eagles and hawks and the songbirds.
Always there were fish to catch and take home for dinner and con little sister into cleaning. I was that little sister. But that's another story.
Whenever we'd said we were going to the creek to explore, Mom would say, "Don't fall in, and if you do, don't come running to me."
Now, what kid wouldn't want to fall into the creek, huh? So why would we go running to Mom about it? Did our mothers ever make sense?
I learned to skip stones there.
I saw my first minnows and frogs there.
I tasted the tang of cold fishy water for the first time there.
I wish I owned that creek now. Some people do, different people, because the creek goes on forever, crossing farms and villages and even backyards.
But if I owned it, I'd change my piece of it to a prettier name than Catfish. Maybe Fried Chicken Creek.
I'd eat whatever came out of those waters. Wouldn't you?
They wander all over the place with no direction in mind, and if something's in their way, they just scoot around it and carry on.
We have one of those in southern Ontario. It's called Catfish Creek - was named by some early settlers who'd probably never seen so many whiskered fish in their lives.
I never knew anyone who ate those things. You couldn't put something on your plate that might meow at you.
Looking at the width of the creek and flat land around it, then at the steep, high cliffs beyond, you could see that the Catfish Creek was at one time something to be reckoned with. A river - a raging river.
But even in its lesser creek stage, it could drown a man.
There were deep holes and quicksand banks, and in the Spring thaw, the water, as cold as ice, rocketed along, ripping up bushes and heaving stones. It could pull you under in a second.
Parts of it, though, were relaxed and safe places to swim in the summer and skate on during the winter.
Pussy willows grew there and willow trees and ferns, sumach and pines. So did the eagles and hawks and the songbirds.
Always there were fish to catch and take home for dinner and con little sister into cleaning. I was that little sister. But that's another story.
Whenever we'd said we were going to the creek to explore, Mom would say, "Don't fall in, and if you do, don't come running to me."
Now, what kid wouldn't want to fall into the creek, huh? So why would we go running to Mom about it? Did our mothers ever make sense?
I learned to skip stones there.
I saw my first minnows and frogs there.
I tasted the tang of cold fishy water for the first time there.
I wish I owned that creek now. Some people do, different people, because the creek goes on forever, crossing farms and villages and even backyards.
But if I owned it, I'd change my piece of it to a prettier name than Catfish. Maybe Fried Chicken Creek.
I'd eat whatever came out of those waters. Wouldn't you?
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