The Conestoga Creek was one of my childhood playgrounds. We could ride our bikes to it along the busy highway or hike down at the edge of the cornfields. Usually we opted for the latter. But the creek held such treasures! As our whole family was into birdwatching that was always a destination. But it was also a mecca for spring flowers and cool shade. From the high rocks way down the creek, a pure spring flowed that we actually drank from. A mysterious tin cup that we always assumed belonged to the wandering tramps of the area dangled invitingly from a nearby branch - though we didn't dare touch it and drank only from our cupped hands. There were trees whose branches curved out across the water providing lovely nooks to rest on and view the world flowing by. Best of all was the swimming provided at the top of the dam - muddy water and all! As for the dam itself, covered in slippery moss we did our best to try to scale it, buffeted by the swift current, always succumbing and sliding down into the bubbly, churning base. How did we not crack our heads?! There was always the double-dare-you aspect to those steamy August days when summer had just about run out and boredom reigned! And on the rare winter days when the cold stayed long enough to freeze the flow, we skated happily along its winding curves.
The creek was our mother, father, sister, brother - an eternal, familiar presence throughout the seasons folding us into its silent pleasures, accepting, delighting, entrancing, entertaining.
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