Down by the Creek

I was born close to a tiny log cabin in the 100 acre wood that sits close to a slow meandering stream called the Ellison. It was the bitter cold of winter, which means the stream was iced over as hard as a table.

I very likely refused to be born, being naturally rebellious, and at least must have screamed and shouted for hours at the unfairness of being pushed and pulled into a cold place I had not chosen.... In truth, I could not have selected a more suitable site.

The ice in the stream set the theme of my early development. Cold, hard, immutable. A pauper in worldly things, but rich in the God given beauty of my surroundings. The creek seems fierce to those not born to it, and yet exquisite in its purity and form. Ice is after all, just one of the many forms of water. Supposedly there is treasure there.

The ice eventually gave way to warmer times, and it scoured the creek bottom as it broke up, washing last years farm fields towards the mighty Mississippi. Spring once again brought its promise of abundant life for those having eyes to see it. The smell of the earth again as it warms in the sun. Springtime fills the senses like nothing else can, and promises covenant. Blue bells and Johnny Jump ups flower the hills along the creek bank the same as they have for years uncounted. Buds of the new leaves promise a flowering of the wild fruit trees, and leaves begin to cover the naked oaks.

The soil is clay in the fields, and hard as the hubs of the tractor wheel I follow down the furrow as it is plowed. The earth smells waft up to me as I steal worms from the crows for fishing when the sun is full overhead. At the bank the crawdaddies make a place for me as I tempt the fish to become supper for me and my brothers. The mud from Ellison is smooth and warm between my toes, and suddenly clothes seem just a little silly on such a hot day. Fish in these waters can be felt with your toes, and once petted a little, are happy to be picked up behind the gills and taken to the bank.

The cabin was not always there. When I was a boy the area was not well taken care of. Not by me at least. I suppose nature kept it the way she always has, but people have a way of changing things they admire. I have tried over the years to shape the land, but have only succeeded in moving it a little, and when I am gone, I imagine it will revert to its former self. The creek used to meander a little too much in the bottom ground close to the tiny town of Hopper. A little imagination, some dynamite, and oxbows become straight lines. The creek would have gotten around to it eventually, we just helped it along. Anyway, it doesn’t back up in the springtime anymore. This changed the level of the creek in the upper portions, and causes a troop of engineering beavers to start an annual works project to raise the level up to where they believe it should be each spring. As soon as the ice is out, so are they.

They take on responsibility for the otters, minks, bobcats, raccoons, foxes, deer and even the skunk, who come daily to the waters edge for refreshment. It is their duty to maintain the level, and assure bountiful pools for their neighbors. You can see them all if you walk the banks on their terms. City people have no sense of this, and trample about in a way that makes sure that these wild animals are long gone before they get there. I assume they sit just out of site and make jokes at passerby persons much the way construction workers mock the pedestrians in the city. A month without shoes will teach those who can learn to tread lightly. The wild life still knows your around when you come this way, they just don’t seem to mind so much.

Anyway, as I said, I felt the need to somehow “Add” to this natural setting, and during my late twenties began my own works project. A log cabin. I put it just upstream of my teachers the beavers, to take advantage of the still waters they provide. I was beginning to have children at that time, and my reasons for this structure, were a little about me, but more about wanting my sons to have a place to escape from the busy world. My oldest was in diapers when I started, and now he is a man on his own. Sometimes I hear things are a little tough for him, and find he has been to this special place to let the waters wash town living off of him. My other children visit from time to time, but I am not quite sure what they see when they look.

I harvested mature trees. Cut them to shape. Pulled them into place with my dads old tractor named “Johnny”, and after a couple of years of real work, found myself standing in front of what we just call the cabin. It is not especially easy to get to, but that is intentional. The quiet is deafening. The whole area has a beauty that can not be seen with just your eyes. Each person who has taken time to stay awhile finds peace from the busy life they lead outside this very special 100 acre wood. The Ellison gurgles you to sleep, and the stars just fill up the sky. A den of foxes is just across the creek from the cabin, and they feel obligated to share their joy of the moon when it is full. There is no electricity, and most of the time it just sets empty. The animals know this, and feel the cabin is part of their world, and do not go out of their way to stay clear of it. When you stay overnight, it is common for furry friends to come up and look in the window, to see what kind of a bear you might be.

A pair of Canadian geese call the Ellison their summer home. They nest about 100 yards upstream from the cabin, and come back to raise a new gaggle of goslings each year. They like their privacy, and the gander tends to enforce this if boundaries are not properly observed. I have seen dogs learn this lesson the hard way, and have even been known to back away myself. When the leaves turn, they all swim the seven miles to the Mississippi, and head south with old friends.

I am called back, time and again, to this simple place. This refuge from a busy life bequeaths a peace in my spirit like a serenity vending machine. The rates are affordable, and the benefits immense. Join me there soon.

Steve Forrester