The house I spent my formative years in had a creek flowing through the lot. There was a ten foot ravine surrounding the drainage pipe that went under South Parkwood Drive. That was my wilderness. I could escape and be a million miles from the nearest soul though the illusion would be revealed when one looked up to see the houses built to satisfy the initiation of the baby boom.
All the neighborhood kids referred to ravine section as the deep part. While lacking originality it was appropriately named, because summer thunderstorms turned the lazy stream into a raging torrent which gorged the earth around the pipe. The deep part look like ideal water moccasin habitat and occasionally it was. There was always an excited rush of adrenaline when scrambling down the bank scanning for thick dark sticks that suddenly moved.
Rushing to complete the volumes of nun assigned homework the uniform was stripped and cutoffs donned it was creek time. Countless hours were devoted to slowly lifting rocks. The anticipation grew as the rock’s edge gained altitude. Would it be a crawfish, salamander, mudpuppy or snake? Almost always the expectation was rewarded. A quick grab to examine the prey closely then off to the next rock.
It seems the expectancy became an addiction that molded my character. I have spent my life wondering what is under the next rock. It has made awaiting the next sunrise worthwhile. Regardless of how difficult travel becomes on this journey, how defeated I feel in time wonderment rises out of the despair renewing the ascent to the top.
Keep turning over rocks. Yes, you might find a snake, but incredible possibilities await under the next rock. Thanks so much for reading. Have a great day! dj