Gary Greene’s Memories from an Old Hunter…….#26
During the 1950’s and 1960’s in Franklin, Wisconsin, growing up next to a river, made this young boy’s life just a whole lot better. Today, by definition, technically, it should be labeled a stream. The other boys in the neighborhood and I never called it a river or a stream. To us, it was the creek. Now, that word might look like it should rhyme with cheek, but never once did that pronunciation emerge in our vocabulary. Our small river was, “The Crick!” As an adult, when I say crick, I think of the beautiful community of Johnson Creek in Jefferson County. The residents of that city proudly and lovingly refer to their city as “The Crick.” We lovingly called our river, “The Crick.”
At the time, I never really thought much about it, it was just the crick. Playing in and around the crick provided us with the capability of having many adventures. The word soaker became associated with the crick. Let me define our use of the word soaker. A soaker is a shoe that became wet when you walked/fell in over your ankles into the crick. On many occasions, that could occur several times a day. At any one time, my mom would have several pairs of my shoes drying out in the sun. I recall her not always being entirely pleased with my actions. On line, while I was researching the word soaker, one of the definitions I found actually stated wet shoe.
The crick was only 15 feet wide at the widest, but next to my home there was a small island. The island was maybe eight feet by 15 feet, but big enough to support two trees of fairly good strength and height. My best friend John and I would sit up in those two trees and discuss the problems of the day, which usually wasn’t anything worse than when should we tell our mothers that we had soakers. We merged our last two names and the island was christened GreKu Island….from Greene/Kucinski.
That narrow crick, in the spring, became so wide and deep that my dad and I would go up the river in his duck boat with the outboard motor a blazing. The neighbors would come out to see such a sight. I shot my first duck off that crick. I remember a drake Mallard bobbing and rising so many times, that my dad’s Chesapeake King never did catch that bird. Along the crick, while hunting alone with King, he retrieved to my hand, the first skunk I ever saw real close. On the other side of the crick, I caught my first and only opossum in my home made, box trap. As I released that angry opossum, I still can see those teeth and hear that hissing sound. I shot squirrels from the trees above the crick. I chased many a pheasant on both sides of the crick. I loved following the tracks and searching ahead to see if I could spot the bird escaping. I saw my first woodchuck taking a drink from the crick. I saw my first porcupine in a tree on the shoreline of the crick. In the crick, using a flashlight, I speared my first sucker. In the crick, I shot a carp with my bow and I had to throw it back because my buddy John had tears in his eyes. He was and still is a non-hunter. Next to the crick, to scare out a squirrel, we tried hitting a large den tree with a baseball bat. To our surprise, out flew an owl. Next to the crick, I was pheasant hunting with bow in hand, and a large doe popped up ten yards in front of me. As I thought of shooting, I drew back my arrow. All I had was a field tip and I thought better of my choice and slowly released my draw. To this day, I am glad I made that choice. During the 1950’s and 1960’s, the sighting of a deer in Milwaukee County was noteworthy. Even though I was constantly hunting in the field, that doe was the first and only deer I ever saw in the neighborhood.
Not all my history associated the crick was positive in nature. I grew into a fairly good athlete, but the frozen crick taught me that I should never ice skate in front of other people. In a recent text, lifelong friend John reminded me of my unique skating skills. Another time, friend Mike and I were paddling my dad’s boat up the crick, and we went under the North Cape Road Bridge. The neighborhood bad kid was standing on the bridge, and as we came out from under the bridge, he urinated on my head. I don’t have found memories of either of those events. The older boys used to wade in the crick and while they were under the bridge, they would look at Danny’s dad’s Playboy magazines. While I was getting soakers in the crick, at a distance of about ten feet, and looking through the crack under Danny’s armpit, I’m fairly certain, for a brief second, I saw my first, obstructed view of a picture of an unclothed woman.
While I was in third grade, I never admitted I liked girls, but next to the crick, I received my first kiss from my first girlfriend, Carol. Strangely, a few years ago, I was guiding a group of pheasant hunters, and our conversation, somehow came around to Franklin. One of the hunters turned out to be Carol’s son. Later with beer in hand, highlighted by that first kiss, we shared a few laughs and stories of the past.
Some time ago, I stopped at my old home. Among the many topics with the current owners, was the discussion of the crick. I was sad to hear that the crick is bone dry several times during the year.
20 years back, I was teaching a college environmental class and we were at Wehr Nature Center in Franklin, and I discovered that the crick was given a name. The crick of my youth, that taught me so much, was named Pheasant Run. I like that name, it’s a good name for my crick.
This year, because I was writing this memory, I drove 35 miles and stopped at the crick. As I was looking east from the bridge, our narrow crick was nearly invisible due to an overgrowth of primarily invasive species. It no longer was our crick……it was just a creek.