The Indian Crick Gang began to disintegrate toward the end of the seventh grade.
Butch was the first to depart. He had always shown more interest in the opposite sex than the rest of us. When he started combing his hair several times a day, wearing his good Levis after school and hanging out with guys old enough to drive, we knew he was a goner.
There wasn’t a specific date when the gang broke up. But we found there were an increasing number of school activities competing for our attention. The three survivors gradually drifted in different directions. I forfeited my membership the night I mustered the courage to kiss Linda Thompson on the bus ride home after a school roller skating party. The world was never quite the same again.
Many of the things we did may seem dangerous and irresponsible today. In the society of the 1990s I’m sure we would be targeted by the school psychologist for some serious counseling.
But I believe there were some important differences between kids of the 1950s and many of today’s youth. Although we did some stupid things, we never intentionally tried to destroy property or hurt anyone. We stumbled through those years with the understanding that kids didn’t have all the rights of adults - that there were times when we had to defer to our elders. We also understood that if we did something totally out of line, our parents would be the first to make sure we were held accountable. And we knew the punishment we received from community or school officials would be small potatoes compared to what would be waiting for us at home.
Today, Jerry is a marine biologist. Butch manages an automobile dealership. Gary owns and operates a successful computer consulting firm. And after nearly 30 years in journalism, I’m writing this book.
Recently, I visited the community where it all happened. The population of the town has increased more than tenfold. The cemetery where Mother and Father are buried, once on the edge of town, is now surrounded by houses.
Most of our favorite haunts are gone--buried by progress. A subdivision overlooks the spot on Indian Creek where we tested the hand grenade. The bike jump on the highway curve now is a flat, grass-covered area. One side of a Chamber of Commerce sign in the center of the triangle welcomes new arrivals. The other invites departing motorists to "come again soon."
The Avalon looks almost exactly like it did the last time I swam there more than thirty-five years ago. But a fence now makes the area inaccessible to young swimmers.
The water tower still is the dominant physical feature of the town. It’s not silver anymore. Someone painted it blue. The color clashes with all the surrounding foliage and buildings. Metal sleeves have been placed on the lower sections of the legs to keep anyone from using the cross bracing to gain access to the tower ladder. The pump house roof now is covered with metal rather than shingles, hiding the patch where the mythical girl allegedly landed.
Surprisingly, Old Bill’s shack has weathered the years better than many fancier homes. It’s almost invisible from the street, partially concealed by a mobile home on the front of the lot. But is looks like it is in as good a shape as it was when Bill invited us in for hot chocolate.
The elementary school on the bluff above Indian Creek as been remodeled and expanded. But at least two of the slides on the playground date to my school years. It’s tough to wear out a good slide. The merry-go-round has disappeared, either for safety reasons or because small boys were prohibited from robbing it.
The house where my parents lived for four decades--where my father died on a crisp March morning - still stands. But it has deteriorated badly under a series of short-time owners. Only the big unpainted barn looks much the same as it did when the Jensen Kids and I scrambled along the support beams playing pirates.
But one spot hasn’t changed.
I walked through a park that now covers the site of the rodeo grounds and worked my way through the brush on the creek bank within shouting distance of the main street of town. The Island was still there.
The channel between The Island and the mainland is wider now. But it’s a obstacle any motivated kid could overcome. There was still enough space, however, left for a dandy hideout for a half dozen imaginative boys. But there was no indication that any youth has set foot on The Island since the Indian Crick Gang held its last meeting nearly forty years ago.
That’s a shame.
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