Three Creeks

There were three creeks behind my house growing up. The smallest ran just through the woods from the house, with a trail we would sprint down at terrifying speeds. My dad made us little one inch foam boats in different shapes and sizes and we'd race them and then complain that the winner cheated. One summer we decided that we could make a swimming hole if only we built a dam; after five hours of work we'd managed to create a five inch deep spot. Futile. After one bad winter storm a great oak fell across the creek and in the process crushed part of the barbed wire fence to our field . It was so big the cows couldn't get around the hole, so the tree was left where it fell. It was about 6-8 feet in diameter, and in the summer I liked to walk out on it and dangle my feet over the creek below.
The medium creek was down our gravel road a little ways; we'd go hide under the one-lane bridge and once convinced my mom to let us take our inflatable raft on it. It gets maybe ten inches deep and its flow is so still it doesn't appear to even move; the rafting adventure was a bust. Oftentimes we'd come home with buckets of crawdads or minnows as pets, with mud up past our ankles and a serious case of poison ivy brewing. The dog would walk in behind us, just as wet, just as muddy, and smiling just as widely. The middle creek was as much a part of our summer adventures as any of the kids.
The largest creek was saved only for the most special of occasions. It was the farthest away, through the woods and two fields, following the middle creek. The big creek had a swimming hole in it that was well over six feet deep. There was a rock one could jump off of into the deep part, a secret parents were never to hear. My neighbor was a fisherman, and he'd take his son Kevin and I down to the big creek to help him catch live bait for his trips. Mr. C would stand downstream and give us a signal, at which point Kevin and I would run at full speed toward him, scaring all the minnows into his net. Then we got to pull them off the net, which was kinda cool to a ten year old.

As I write this I'm struck with how idyllic it sounds. It has the air of 1950s Americana (or a John Mellencamp song), not 1980s Virginia. I guess I tell all this because today I'm thinking about how we aren't just a product of our experiences and our environment, we are a product of our memories; our stories.
We live our stories and then, sometimes, they live us.

(the above photo is actually of Goose Creek, located about 5 miles from my three creeks. The largest of my creeks is the North Fork of Goose)