I loved the creek as a young girl. This narrow, twisted, flowing body of water near my West Virginia backyard was home to peaceful memories. Whenever I was free, I crossed the irregularly trimmed yard of grass, clover, and wildflowers to the edge. A parting in the bordering brush bid me to slip through and slide down a steep cliff path of rocks and thorns to the lower ground about twelve feet below. I was in another world, isolated from the watchful eyes of my parents. The birds chirped more freely here. Even the crickets hummed more fervently. I removed my socks and shoes, rolled up my faded blue jeans and stepped gingerly into the shallow, chilly water. The cool current lapped around my ankles. My toes slid on the slimy rocks below the surface, sending shivers up my spine. As I staggered toward the middle, the pressure of the water sought an easy route around my white legs. Only a minuscule segment of this Peter’s Creek was in sight, as it twisted in both directions, carrying water from the mountains above to the river, and eventually thousands of miles away to the Gulf. The water rippled as tiny minnows sought a new refuge. The crystal center was so clear every rock, fish, and crawdad were displayed at the bottom of its six-inch depth. However, by the edge, in the murky still water, small clouds formed as my footprints disturbed the creek bottom. The water upstream echoed with a smooth, peaceful trickle as the constant flow fell over nearby boulders. The creek had the fresh yet wormy scent of rain bathed living creatures. The cows grazing in the field nearby added the background odor of fresh manure. Dangling blackberry bushes also shaded the creek from above. Fed by the close waters, these berries were only reached by those brave enough to walk through the stream, like me, and they grew chunky, royal, juicy, and sour-sweet. So, during July creek walks, I reached up to pick these one-of-kind berries and savor their juicy freshness in my mouth, quenching my thirst, yet awakening my desire for more. Sometimes, I selflessly shared these treasures with a sister and brother, and on occasion, we picked buckets to bring back to the family. When my siblings joined, we could play for hours together, laughing, enjoying life, and picking blackberries, until it was time to go home. The climb back up the hill required a challenging dash and scramble to pull ourselves up the steep cliff path, back to our duties, while the creek remained our special summer place nestled into our memories for another day.
Jenni Bee delights in creating stories, singer-songwriting, and spending time with her children near Philadelphia. Her emerging creative writing has been accepted to publications such as Riot Grrrl Musical, Monograph Magazine, Feel Literary Magazine, The Hot Mess Weekly, Verandah Literary and Art, and elsewhere. Find Jenni online at jennibeewrites.wordpress.com.