About This Author
I grew up on a stinking creek that trailed with beautiful green river weed like a woman’s hair and would flood often in the suburbs of Chicago. As kids my friends and I would build these seemingly river worthy vessels and try and float our way into the city.
We didn’t think about much, just dangled our legs and pushed ourselves off from bank to bank, looking up into the blue sky that was lazy with sun. We would carry ourselves over the logjams clotted with refuse as we got further and further downstream.
We may have been deep down in the hull of our boat asleep, or gazing up at the sky through the cookie cut oak leaves heavy and green with light.
Everything was endless as you may or may not recall: the summers, our families, our houses, our dogs, our favorite tree roots to stop at and lay upon and hang our heads over and gaze with wonder down into the moving water.
But when the stink of the river was too much to take any longer and the trees were full of a tangled sun, we’d climb up and out on the muddy banks and ask at someone’s house or apartment to use their phone, calling a mom to come get us. Then we’d return with our vessel balanced precariously out of the back of the family station wagon.
Eventually we made it downstream to the city and the first thing we bought was a comb out of a vending machine. We wanted to look presentable. This was noble, but it was rarely a priority, as many would testify.
I guess we were lucky. These adventures, and the seeming of endlessness helped to make us.