There were rules set for Chippewa Creek. No shoes, no nice clothes, and no submerging yourself deeper than the neck. Drinking the water was never mentioned because that was just common sense. I know my older sister did, she liked the water more than fish did. Plus, after sliding down the clay mound and plopping into the shallow water below, no one was safe from ingesting it. It was better than drinking the stale, sitting, brown water that the stream couldn’t touch. Bugs covered the top like a film of saran wrap. Snakes loved that water. I caught a crayfish in that water
Time makes everything smaller. I went back eight years after the last time I was at Chippewa Creek. It was still mostly empty, and a new group of kids were playing in the clay stained water. But it was wimpy. There was less water, and the clay slide was reduced to a clay carpet. The whole place looked more like a river of rocks and pebbles than a creek. The only thing that was the same was the mating bugs and the stagnant water. It was a sight that made me feel sorry. I wanted to walk up to Ms. Chippewa and say, “I’m sorry for your loss.” My mother didn’t say anything even though she grew up here. No, “the water used to overflow out onto the road when I was your age.” It was ninety-four degrees, but she refused to get her feet wet. I went home dejected after what I thought would be a happy reunion with an old childhood friend.
