Friday, June 10, 2005
The Mouth
When I was a kid, we would go down to Race Street to the railroad tracks, followed the tracks about a half mile to the south to a bridge, and cut through some trees, where we came to a place we used to call the "mouth." The mouth was a place of quiet, solitude, and entertainment for many of the "River Rats," as the children in our small town were known. It was not an uncommon sight to see a gang of energetic boys on dirt bikes, myself included, carrying fishing tackle, radios, and thermoses full of warm iced tea toward the railroad tracks on a warm summer morning. It was not a very long trail, unless we were in a hurry.
The trail following the train tracks was usually cool depending on the time of day. The trail was lined with trees and filled with the sound of birds complaining of our presence. It was bumpy and rocky and usually at least one of us would have to stop to retrieve something dropped. The trail passed an old cemetery hidden deep in the woods which had probably been forgotten since the time of the French and Indian War. Further down was an old garbage dump. There lay the remains of what once were a refrigerator and an old couch which looked as though it had been through a fire, a flood, and a Van Halen concert.
I do not know how the others felt, but I never liked riding next to the train tracks. I hated the loud noise and the immense machine that shook the ground and blew leaves and dirt into my eyes. Maybe I was scared that what had happened to the kid from Middletown might happen to me. I never quite forgot how I felt when I found out that one of my friends had been playing on the tracks and what had happened to him. The adults left out the really bad details.
As we left the train tracks, we were led through weeds which climbed up our legs and stuck to our clothes, leaving us to pick tiny itchy burrs out of our socks for the rest of the afternoon. Riding through them, we learned that the weeds were a hiding place for millions of different biting insects. Those large, flying, carnivores were always after us for a nibble. None of us could never remember to bring our insect repellent.
Once through the weeds the cool shade of the small wood comforted our tired and overheated bodies. To the left a small bubbling creek flowed lazily into the river from under the bridge into dangerous rapids. There was a clearing to the right where we would stash our bikes. The river swept through from the north, which was on our right, and flowed south to neighboring communities which all seemed identical to ours in size and personality...small and lazy.
If we continued toward the river, we would go over a steep, rocky hill and then the terrain leveled out. The mouth was to the left. There was a log near the water where we would sit for hours and talk, fish, and sometimes sing. It was not always fun to swim as it was to fish there because the river was muddy and the creek was very cold. Once we waded downstream with our poles toward the center of the river. We got completely soaked but failed to get as much as a nibble. Usually, we just sat on the log and told wild stories of the battles we had fought with the "dangerous" fish which inhabited the territory. My friend Tyler tried to convince me that he had once almost caught a catfish the size of his little brother, Logan. We knew he was pulling our legs, but that's just the kind of story telling we loved.
The mouth was always a place of refuge for us and will always be a fond memory. I cannot say I enjoyed every last minute I spent there, but it is a place I will never forget.
The trail following the train tracks was usually cool depending on the time of day. The trail was lined with trees and filled with the sound of birds complaining of our presence. It was bumpy and rocky and usually at least one of us would have to stop to retrieve something dropped. The trail passed an old cemetery hidden deep in the woods which had probably been forgotten since the time of the French and Indian War. Further down was an old garbage dump. There lay the remains of what once were a refrigerator and an old couch which looked as though it had been through a fire, a flood, and a Van Halen concert.
I do not know how the others felt, but I never liked riding next to the train tracks. I hated the loud noise and the immense machine that shook the ground and blew leaves and dirt into my eyes. Maybe I was scared that what had happened to the kid from Middletown might happen to me. I never quite forgot how I felt when I found out that one of my friends had been playing on the tracks and what had happened to him. The adults left out the really bad details.
As we left the train tracks, we were led through weeds which climbed up our legs and stuck to our clothes, leaving us to pick tiny itchy burrs out of our socks for the rest of the afternoon. Riding through them, we learned that the weeds were a hiding place for millions of different biting insects. Those large, flying, carnivores were always after us for a nibble. None of us could never remember to bring our insect repellent.
Once through the weeds the cool shade of the small wood comforted our tired and overheated bodies. To the left a small bubbling creek flowed lazily into the river from under the bridge into dangerous rapids. There was a clearing to the right where we would stash our bikes. The river swept through from the north, which was on our right, and flowed south to neighboring communities which all seemed identical to ours in size and personality...small and lazy.
If we continued toward the river, we would go over a steep, rocky hill and then the terrain leveled out. The mouth was to the left. There was a log near the water where we would sit for hours and talk, fish, and sometimes sing. It was not always fun to swim as it was to fish there because the river was muddy and the creek was very cold. Once we waded downstream with our poles toward the center of the river. We got completely soaked but failed to get as much as a nibble. Usually, we just sat on the log and told wild stories of the battles we had fought with the "dangerous" fish which inhabited the territory. My friend Tyler tried to convince me that he had once almost caught a catfish the size of his little brother, Logan. We knew he was pulling our legs, but that's just the kind of story telling we loved.
The mouth was always a place of refuge for us and will always be a fond memory. I cannot say I enjoyed every last minute I spent there, but it is a place I will never forget.
