The Crick

Every boy needs their crick

Forest Acres, SC. Most folks called it “somewhere over near Columbia.” There were a lot of creeks there…but only one special one for us four boys. It was The Crick, and it wound through a hollow surrounded by a mix of turkey, white and water oaks, sycamores, loblolly and longleaf pines and really thick thickets. We didn’t know too much about the finer points of plant taxonomy. We just called it “The Woods.”

To reach The Crick, we followed a well-worn trail of a mile or so through The Woods. When we arrived at our destination, we never knew whether The Crick was going to be pouring over its banks in a red/brown torrent, or just trickling along, like water from a garden hose somebody forgot to turn off.

The best conditions were somewhere in between, when The Crick moved along strong and clear, a foot deep at most. In the more tranquil shallows along the banks, minnows, tiny turtles and bullfrogs were plentiful.

Scoop ’em up

The frogs were way too quick to catch, and if you did manage to get your hands on one, it would usually jettison away like a slimy little rocket. The minnows were another story. Walter was the most proficient of our gang with the dip net. He would slip along the bank and scoop them up like Mama pulling hushpuppies from the deep fryer.

Tadpoles too were a blast to catch, especially those fat brown bullfrog tads. Sometimes pushing two inches with a couple of tiny back legs protruding, these were trophy tadpoles for sure.

Regardless of what we were in pursuit of, there was no such thing as catch-and-release. All critters went into a quart-sized Duke’s Mayonnaise jar filled with Crick water, eventually to be forgotten on somebody’s back porch.

The occasional snake, be it large or small, was a deadly serpent bent on striking anyone who dared encroach on its territory.

Of course, the snakes were way more freaked out than we were. At the first glimpse of us boys sploshing around in their Crick, they’d slither for the hills.

My cousin Jimmy from Watkinsville, GA would usually spend a week in the summer with me. Of course, The Crick was our top destination.

Catch and let loose

One morning on the Crick, Jimmy spotted a little brown snake zipping across the surface. We decided it was too little to be dangerous; not exactly a hard and fast rule. So, he grabbed it, and into the Duke’s jar it went.

We had punched holes in the lid, just in case we entrapped a non-marine species. We were proactive way before proactive was even a word!

My cousin and I made the 30-minute walk to my house, proudly carrying our Duke’s jar with the 9-inch-long beast inside. I’m sure the little guy was wondering, “What did I do to deserve this?”

When we arrived home, Mama and my older brother were off somewhere, so we decided we’d bring our prize inside and play with him. It was fun while it lasted. He crawled here and there on the linoleum kitchen floor, no doubt looking for a way back to the Crick.

That turned out to be a bad idea for all involved. When Jimmy and I lost sight of him in the kitchen, we lost interest in our newfound pet and decided it was time to grab the jar and head back to The Crick. Out of sight, out of mind. This was not very proactive.

Mama came home shortly after our departure. We were a mile away, so were unable to hear her scream. She grabbed the Hoover and sucked the little fella up into a dusty oblivion.

Meanwhile, my older brother arrived home and was informed by Mama that there was a snake in the vacuum cleaner, which was now in the back yard. My murderous, spawn from hell brother went outside, grabbed a shovel and chopped the poor little snake into little snakelets.

Mine and Jimmy’s fate was a ‘good talking to’ from my dad when he got home from work. Not too awful a punishment considering we scared the be-Jesus out of Mama. Just glad my cousin was there. That saved my butt. Literally. ■