Letters from NYC

The Troll That Lived By The Creak

Unable to sleep last night I trolled through the blogosphere and visited many wonderful bloggers. I saved some of my favorite sites for last. Among them was this little refuge in the woods created by RSM. His posts have a way of helping my stress melt away, bringing me back to a time and place where life was sweeter, slower and more care free than it is today.

Unfortunately, his post made me really long for the uncomplicated warmth and beauty of my childhood surroundings. Ironically, though I’ve lived in many places, they were mostly rural settings that fueled both my spirit and imagination. In France, I lived not far from the Versailles Gardens where aesthetic beauty in nature was elevated to an art form.. Sicily offered a rough rocky terrain with luscious green hills to frolic in and the pervasive sweet scent of the ocean no matter where you went. In Peru I lived halfway up the foot of a range that lead into the Andean Mountains. In Mexico City I sat on a porch within view of some incredible Aztec ruins.

All of these places touched history, and in their own way they touched and influence me. But of all the places I’ve lived, none was sweater or more dear than my grandfather’s cabin in the woods. It was originally a shed that he would escape to when the kids were too much or the demands of a husband and father got to be too demanding for him. A quiet retreat in a world in which he had no say or control. A place of his own! When he was older and grandma had passed, he had a sturdy cabin built to live in its place, and to exhale his last breath in. RSM brought that peaceful environment of a lovely rustic setting back to me, and suddenly I was longing more than ever to visit with my grandfather and go pretend fishing with him at the creak way behind his cabin.

This creak is where he and I idled many an afternoon in quiet conversation. It’s where I dozed many a hot lazy summer day, sitting on the roots of a 200 year old tree, nestled in an opening someone had carved in its trunk, while I let my feet dangle, barely touching the water with my toes, as I swung them back and forth. As I grew older, on hot sticky days I’d cool myself by submerging my fully clothed body into the water, sitting cross-legged on the rocks on the creak bed while I let my arms float gently beside me. I would sit so still, that from time to time, small fish would lightly kiss my arms in an attempt to see if I was food worthy.

The water was so crystal clear I could see dead leaves and tiny mollusks scampering about at the bottom of the creak that would somehow find their way there during hurricane season. The water was cooled by the deep dense shade of the canopy of trees and densely covered limbs that surrounded this bend in the creak.

One afternoon, after being away for almost a year, I visited the creak only to find my grandfather had hung a cotton canvas hammock between 2 sturdy limbs that leaned over the creak. It hung low enough over the water to keep you cool on a hot summer day, and high enough to keep you dry. I’ll never forget the scent of sun-scorched cotton mixed with my grandfather’s perspiration which I noticed as soon as I lay down in the hammock It was a place I felt sheltered and protected from the changes that were happening in my life. It was my own refuge against the demands of the world. It was there I ran to and cried when I’d get the call from my parents telling me when they were going to pick me up.

It was in that hammock that I plotted with my diary how I would run away into the mountains, so I could never be found and still live close enough to my grandfather to visit him regularly. At the end of that summer, when we relocated back to NYC I knew it would be a very long time before I’d return.

Sometimes at night, instead of reading to my son a bed time story, I tell him tales of a little girl and her best friend Raif, who went on incredible adventures, and single handedly fended off her enemies and protected her fort with her wit and her bravery. She also managed to live off the land with just a swiss army knife, some rough twine, a big old sling-shot (that was sometimes to big for her hands) and an old canteen to keep her well in her travels. All of which she carried in a faded old green knapsack that been given magical powers by the warrior who possessed the bag before her.

After reading R’s post, and my son seeing his pictures, he’s made me promise we’d visit that creak to see if that little girl still lives there. I dare say, if we look hard enough I believe we will find her!