Growing up

Every once in a while we take a walk down memory lane. For some of us it might be good memories while others might have bad ones that they recall. For me although I know there were bad times it is the good memories I remember because it is those ones that shaped me into the person I am today.

Most of my childhood was spent on a farm off of 422 in New Castle PA across the road from the boyscout camp and Slippery Rock Creek and while we did live on 40 acres it wasn't enough land to keep us occupied for long. In a time where you only got 3 channels on television our imaginations were fueled by books and stories, as well as 'The Wonderful World of Disney' which aired every Sunday evening after 'Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom.'

If we had no work to do we soon were transposed into cowboys and Indians or pirates on a quest for gold. We were sultans in Arabia or soldiers in some distant war. There was no hiding out in the house even if it was raining outside because we had a 2 story barn with a hayloft that provided all the shelter from the rain that we needed. However in many cases we were outside playing in the rain anyways. Very seldom was there any boredom around our home. Friends would often come to spend the night during the summer and never go home until school was about to start.

As I close my eyes I can still the sweet aroma of the hay in the loft. The sounds of the horses below gently moving about in their stalls or the smell of the leaves after a rain in the tree houses we built in oak trees through out the property and when the wind is blowing in the right direction the smell of Slippery Rock Creek would make its way to our house through an open window. Its smell would beckon you to make the trek to its banks, like the smell of freshly baked bread would call you to the kitchen from across the yard.

Some nights the call would be too strong to deny so me and my brothers would make our way downstairs and out the back door flash lights in hand and begin scouring the yard for the evasive night crawlers we would need as bait for the trip. Our fishing poles were always ready to go down in the basement with the tackle boxes lying nearby. After an hour of searching we would have the desired amount of bait and off we would go with poles and lanterns in hand snaking our way through the trees and bushes along the path that would lead us to the edge of the 30 foot drop off that led down to the rivers banks.

Once there the noise of the river was as loud as subway cars running through the streets of New York or some other great city. Darkness covered the path. The great trees insured that little moonlight could get through as if they dared anything to make the trip and yet we would. As we would start down one hill we eagerly looked for the splotch of moonlight that we knew would light the way to the next trail along side of this dangerous pathway, often times grabbing each others hands to insure that no one was lost. Rocks and tree stumps formed imaginative creatures and any wrong step we were sure that we would be eaten or mauled to death by these creatures yet the desire to finish our quest always kept us pushing forward over rocks and trees. Soon the noise would be so loud that you could not even hear each other talk. The aroma was one that can not be described except by those who were drawn to it.

Upon reaching the bottoms we still had a ways to go to get to that sweet fishing spot that we had claimed as our own. We imagined that few knew where it was and while it could have been true it probably was not. This part of the trek required crossing several small streams which would flow down off the hill. It required sure footing as you climbed up large rocks that sloped down towards the rapids below which appeared to awaiting their next victim. Their swirling waters glistening in the moonlight as if calling you into their grasp. As we neared the calm area of the river we would begin looking for spots to return to among these massive rock outcroppings knowing that many would hold the ultimate treasure, fish. From these areas we could let our baited hooks flow into the unreachable areas of the river that held our query. They would be there captivated by the food sources that were carried down river by the currents and the moonlight which was allowed to peek through this area would reveal the bait as the sun points the way to a shiny penny left laying on the ground.

Finally we would arrive at our destination. Long branches reached out over the water dimming the shore line. The muddy banks seemingly appeared to attempt to convince you that they were actually water instead of land. Several large flat rocks loomed out of the water as if massive sea creatures. We would light our lanterns bait our hooks and begin the conquest of our queries, the mighty catfish that filled Slippery Rock Creek and as the moonlight would dance across the waters we would imagine being on some great fishing vessel, miles from shore. Few words would be shared except when a fish would be caught but then again few words were ever really needed between us. We were brothers, bonded at birth and nothing could ever come between that bond. Not even the mighty Slippery Rock Creek who had claimed hundreds of lives and would one day try to claim one of us, but that is for another time because for now we were the kings of the river and some time before the sun would rise we would make that long hazardous trip back up the hill with a stringer full of fish.