THE CRICK

THE CRICK

Hello Neighbor. Glad you stopped by.

In January of 1971, the company my husband, Al, worked for transferred him from Monmouth, Maine to the office in Buffalo, New York. We found a home in Alden on Irving Street. Now Irving Street was no  different from any other suburban street. It had neat houses on both sides with green lawns, trees and flowers. But this short street came to an abrupt end with a silver-gray guard rail. Standing there, looking beyond the rail, all one  could really see was just an empty old field, not used for much except growing weeds  and providing a place for bikers and motorcyclists.

But if you ventured across this not so exciting field, you would enter a patch of woods and there you would discover a “crick”. Now in Maine, I would call it a brook, a  stream  or  maybe a creek, but here it was a “crick”. It was here that our daughter and I and some of her little friends took a bag lunch and followed the crick. We looked for little frogs, pretty stones and listened to the water as it trickled down over the rocks. And yet, not far away was the rush, rush of the traffic on busy Broadway as the motorists hurried to and fro. But here, along the crick, as it meandered on its way, the rush  of the world was put aside for a while.

I could imagine the things one would  see, hear and find with the changing seasons. During the fall, footsteps would be hushed by the fallen leaves of brown, red and gold. Sunlight would filter through the trees creating a feeling of peace and serenity. Then Old Man Winter would come and change the scene with his decoration of snow on rocks and icicles hanging on twigs and grasses. Even the crick’s song would change from the mellowsome of October to a hollow sound as the water ran beneath the ice. Footprints of birds, rabbits, and other wildlife would crisscross in the new fallen snow. Branches of trees would drop their load of snow as one walked by, brushing them lightly with a shoulder.

Spring would follow bringing her warm rains to melt the snow and ice and now even the quiet crick takes on a sense  of rush as it hurries on  its way, so fast at times that it flows over the edges. Then the storms pass and the crick would return to its quiet meandering as the summer’s sun brings out the buzzing flies and once again the little frogs appear at the waters edge. The pretty stones could be seen and the music of the water heard, while all around the busy world continues to rush by.

Stop by again some time and we will have a little chat.