The Stream
As kids we'd ride around the neighborhood in the summer looking for someone with a swimming pool. My best friend Katie knew a kid named Jake whose parents were friends with her parents—he was always our first stop. He was younger than us and obnoxious, but he had a pool, and that made you forgive a lot.
If Jake wasn't home we were pretty much out of luck, but we still had hope—hope that a pool would somehow magically materialize, hope that some forgotten-about or overlooked friend, or friend of a friend, would appear on the street, ready to invite us over to their luxurious, cool, refreshing backyard oasis. That never happened.
Nicholson Elementary School, where I went to fourth grade, was within walking distance of our neighborhood. My dad and I jogged over there the few times he convinced me to run with him—through the neighborhood, around the school, then back home, where I would collapse red-faced and overheated in the shower.
"It's much easier if you just keep going and don't stop," my dad said, trying to convince me to make it fifty feet to the next stop sign before I gave up and walked.
"It's not," I half-sobbed, half-whined.
Alison lived across the street from us. We built forts out of sticks in her backyard in the evenings until the light got dim and our parents called us inside. Our families had cookouts together, after which the adults and the kids would play stickball, using the trees as bases.
One day Alison and I were hanging out, trying to figure out what to do. We'd been told not to swim in the creek at Nicholson. It wasn't really much of a creek—maybe a foot deep at the most and really most likely more of a drainage ditch that curved through the field where we had our Student Olympics every year. It was probably disgusting and full of things you don't want touching your skin. But these are finer points lost on fourth graders who are just SO HOT AND CANNOT FIND ANYONE WITH A POOL AND IT'S THE ONLY BODY OF WATER AROUND AND WE'RE GOING TO DO IT ANYWAY.
So we put on our swimsuits under our normal clothes and hopped on our bikes, speeding past my mom in the front yard watering her day lilies, half expecting her to catch some glimpse of a swimsuit strap and stop our escapade before it began. As we pulled to a stop next to the creek bed, I started to have my first doubts. The creek didn't look that nice to swim in. There was some kind of weird bug on the surface, and the rocks had slime on them. Plus we were in the middle of an open field—what if someone came along?
But we'd committed to this crime. We were moving forward.
Gingerly taking off our shoes, shorts, and t-shirts, we plodded over to the water.
"Where should we get in?" Alison asked.
"I don't know...maybe over there?" I pointed to a spot where the creek was set slightly lower, where we might not be as visible.
Hopping across rocks, we finally put our feet in, cool water rushing between our legs, grins on our faces as we stood there looking at each other. Eventually we got up the nerve to sit, though I was on edge, keeping an eye out for anything slimy or bug-like. This was not feeling like the best idea.
It was then, when the two of us were sitting in 8 inches of water in a tiny creek / drainage ditch in the middle of an elementary school field, when we heard footsteps coming up the path.
We leapt up and on to the bank, if you could call it a bank, trying to paste innocent looks on our faces. There on the footbridge across the creek was Katie's dad and little brother, the latter carrying a soccer ball.
"Hi girls," Katie's dad said. "Whatcha up to?"
"Nothing..." Alison and I said in unison. A suaver criminal would have come up with a story at that point, but we weren't suave. We stayed awkwardly silent. And then we hopped on our bikes, our butts wet, and escaped.
"I heard you guys were swimming in the creek," Katie said later. I just looked at her, my cheeks red.
For years after I was convinced I'd contracted some kind of parasite from the water and they were going to find strange bug eggs in my brain when I keeled over in a mysterious death.
If Jake wasn't home we were pretty much out of luck, but we still had hope—hope that a pool would somehow magically materialize, hope that some forgotten-about or overlooked friend, or friend of a friend, would appear on the street, ready to invite us over to their luxurious, cool, refreshing backyard oasis. That never happened.
Nicholson Elementary School, where I went to fourth grade, was within walking distance of our neighborhood. My dad and I jogged over there the few times he convinced me to run with him—through the neighborhood, around the school, then back home, where I would collapse red-faced and overheated in the shower.
"It's much easier if you just keep going and don't stop," my dad said, trying to convince me to make it fifty feet to the next stop sign before I gave up and walked.
"It's not," I half-sobbed, half-whined.
Alison lived across the street from us. We built forts out of sticks in her backyard in the evenings until the light got dim and our parents called us inside. Our families had cookouts together, after which the adults and the kids would play stickball, using the trees as bases.
One day Alison and I were hanging out, trying to figure out what to do. We'd been told not to swim in the creek at Nicholson. It wasn't really much of a creek—maybe a foot deep at the most and really most likely more of a drainage ditch that curved through the field where we had our Student Olympics every year. It was probably disgusting and full of things you don't want touching your skin. But these are finer points lost on fourth graders who are just SO HOT AND CANNOT FIND ANYONE WITH A POOL AND IT'S THE ONLY BODY OF WATER AROUND AND WE'RE GOING TO DO IT ANYWAY.
So we put on our swimsuits under our normal clothes and hopped on our bikes, speeding past my mom in the front yard watering her day lilies, half expecting her to catch some glimpse of a swimsuit strap and stop our escapade before it began. As we pulled to a stop next to the creek bed, I started to have my first doubts. The creek didn't look that nice to swim in. There was some kind of weird bug on the surface, and the rocks had slime on them. Plus we were in the middle of an open field—what if someone came along?
But we'd committed to this crime. We were moving forward.
Gingerly taking off our shoes, shorts, and t-shirts, we plodded over to the water.
"Where should we get in?" Alison asked.
"I don't know...maybe over there?" I pointed to a spot where the creek was set slightly lower, where we might not be as visible.
Hopping across rocks, we finally put our feet in, cool water rushing between our legs, grins on our faces as we stood there looking at each other. Eventually we got up the nerve to sit, though I was on edge, keeping an eye out for anything slimy or bug-like. This was not feeling like the best idea.
It was then, when the two of us were sitting in 8 inches of water in a tiny creek / drainage ditch in the middle of an elementary school field, when we heard footsteps coming up the path.
We leapt up and on to the bank, if you could call it a bank, trying to paste innocent looks on our faces. There on the footbridge across the creek was Katie's dad and little brother, the latter carrying a soccer ball.
"Hi girls," Katie's dad said. "Whatcha up to?"
"Nothing..." Alison and I said in unison. A suaver criminal would have come up with a story at that point, but we weren't suave. We stayed awkwardly silent. And then we hopped on our bikes, our butts wet, and escaped.
"I heard you guys were swimming in the creek," Katie said later. I just looked at her, my cheeks red.
For years after I was convinced I'd contracted some kind of parasite from the water and they were going to find strange bug eggs in my brain when I keeled over in a mysterious death.