As children, we used to spend hours playing in the creek in our backyard.
I don't know what fascinated us so.
It is a muddy mess with branches and stones and a light stream.
But to us it was magical.
The old trees towered over, creating our shady and cool respite.
We found shapes in their trunks and built bridges with logs and rocks.
We pretended the mud was quicksand, pulling us deeper and deeper into the ground below.
The creek served as a great divide between us and all the other houses in our neighborhood.
We built bridges to visit our friends.
We had to be home by dinner time.
Dirty hands and muddy boots - our designated "creek shoes."
I remember staying out even in the rain, pretending that we were stranded on an island, ignoring the fact that our house was only about a hundred feet away.
We were at war,
we were fighting for our survival,
wondering if we would make it.