Raccoon Creek

Reads: 496  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
I would play in this creek when I was young.

Submitted: July 05, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 05, 2011

A A A

A A A


Raccoon Creek By Bryan Wood On the weekends in summer months when I was young, my parents would take me to swim at a place called Cora Mill along Raccoon Creek near Rio Grande, Ohio.  Upon arriving at the gravel parking lot, we saw that a great many other families had the same idea, to have a picnic and go for a swim on a hot, humid Saturday in July.  The picnic area was crowded with families and children. After a diligent search, my mother found the only table left had only three legs (the fourth was propped up by a large rectangular rock) and the top was missing a board.  Even so, the cooking grill was not in use, so we staked our claim.  Most of the tables were broken, but Dad said they just had character.  After I helped my Dad pour in the charcoal into the bottom of the ash-lined metal grill, he lit a match, igniting the charcoal for the fire. I went to change into my swimming suit that was a hand-me-down from one of my older brothers.  The shorts were too long, and the string that held them up would not stay tied.  Most of the time, I had to keep one hand on my shorts to keep them up.   While I was changing, I could hear and smell the hamburgers cooking, and just the smell made my mouth water.  Mom always brought our favorite foods.  Mom brought the hottest potato chips that were covered with red chili powder sprinkled over them, that were so hot that a glass of grape Kool-Aid had to be next to your plate to help extinguish the spicy taste.  The part of lunch that I liked the best was dessert; on this trip we had a gigantic watermelon.  After slicing the watermelon into manageable-size pieces, Dad would tell us to pick the one we thought we could eat; my eyes were always bigger than my stomach. When our lunch was over, we headed for the creek.  Along the pathway to the creek, tall trees like wide umbrellas were scattering the rays of the sun into light and dark patches of a quilt.  The stone and dirt path were worn smooth from the foot traffic from generations of families enjoying the use of the creek.  As we got closer to the water, the sounds of the children laughing and playing were almost drowned out from the force of the water flowing and crashing over the miniature waterfalls.  With my first steps into the water, I could feel the slippery and slimy algae that had attached themselves to the smooth rocks under the swiftly moving stream.  Very carefully sliding one foot forward a little at a time so that I could keep from falling and being swept down stream, I could feel the funny sensation of the greenish brown, slimy algae building up between my toes.  Downstream to my left, the water cascaded and crashed over the jagged step like rocks leading to the deeper water. I couldn't swim, so I investigated the upstream side.  Towering across Raccoon Creek was a rusty old highway bridge set on two tall sandstone block pillars.  The pillars were etched from the ravages of time, water, past visitors and promises of true love.  In the shadows under the bridge the water became cold and dark, and I remembered old stories that I had heard of giant catfish swallowing children, and great whirlpools that would trap unsuspecting swimmers.  I knew this was no place for me.  I wish some day I could go back to Cora Mill to try to remember the sights, sounds and smells of my fondest memories as a child.


© Copyright 2020 Woodrow Benson. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments: