Lucinda Jennings
Leaning over the railing of the footbridge, I stared mindlessly at the water below. Backlick Run is normally a shallow slow-flowing creek where it empties into Holmes Run, but today was more powerful than usual following heavy rain. I often take a walk around the pond at Ben Brenman Park, but blocked by fencing from a retrofit project underway, I detoured. There on the bridge I found myself daydreaming. Silence broken only by loud chirps of a robin flying rapidly back and forth across the creek. I heard footsteps.
“Why such anger?” A man yelled over his shoulder as he stepped onto the bridge. A dog on a leash trotted next to him.
Behind him, from a field next to the dog park, another man shout-ed back. His voice was muffled by distance, but he was clearly unhappy. His young son, I assumed it was, there by his side.
I looked back down at the creek. I didn’t really want to know what just happened.
“Do you know what just happened?” The dog’s collar jingled as the man stopped beside me.
Without my response, Bob, as he introduced himself, told how he routinely takes Jake to the dog park. Weeks ago, Jake escaped and ran to this same father and son practicing lacrosse in the field. Jake grabbed the boy’s lacrosse stick and chewed the mesh before being stopped.
As Bob spoke, a chirping robin again darted across the creek.
“I apologized and offered to pay.” Bob continued. “The guy just kept shouting.”
Trips to the dog park coincide fairly often with the lacrosse practice in spite of Bob’s attempts to avoid it. When the father sees the dog he becomes irate and makes his feelings clear.
“So much anger.” Bob stated simply. He leaned over the railing with me.
Once again, loud chirps as a robin swooped low over the creek.
“Anger everywhere.” Bob repeated. “I don’t know what it will take to get people to work with each other instead of against each other, but I bet it will have to be something big.”
As we stared into the water something caught my eye. On a large rock in the center of the creek, a movement. I leaned to get a better look.
Lucinda Jennings
“What’s that little thing?” Bob asked. He noticed the movement too.
Just as we realized what it was, the father and son stepped onto the bridge. The father walked by and didn’t speak. The son, lacrosse stick in hand, started to throw some pebbles into the water. He stopped short.
“Dad, come here, that’s a baby bird!” He called to his father.
A baby robin, apparently swept into the creek during the rain, had managed to climb onto a large rock surrounded by the fast-flow-ing water. There he sat, soggy and shivering.
“We’ve got to get him!” the boy cried as he ran down the over-grown bank and stood at the water’s edge. The father followed.
Bob adjusted Jake’s collar and walked away. After hearing his story, I was certain he was happy to go home without another shouting match. He turned to me.
“You coming?” Bob asked. He nodded towards the creek where the little boy was already wading into the water.
We scrambled through brush and briars to stand on the muddy bank. The father waded into the swollen creek after his son’s failed attempt to grab the tiny bird.
“Can you reach him if I hold your hand?” The father asked.
“Almost!” the boy responded. Jake barked.
“Here, hold this.” Bob handed me the leash and started into the water just as the boy slipped and fell.
Even with this much water it’s not a deep creek, but mud and slick round river rocks made walking nearly impossible. The two men helped the boy back up. Bob looked over at the pathetic little bird.
"Maybe I can get him.” He waded out a bit further.
Jake and I watched Bob move carefully over slimy rocks and through rolling current. He was almost there when he stopped with a jerk. An underwater log made progress too difficult. Unsure of what to do, Bob started to turn back.
Jake jumped when we heard a splash. The father was back in the creek again, lacrosse stick over his shoulder.
“Take my hand.” The father said when he reached Bob. He planted his feet, held Bob’s hand, and passed him the lacrosse stick.
A robin swooped low over their heads, chirping loudly.
Bob, lacrosse stick in his free hand, leaned over the underwater log and gently scooped the baby bird into the mesh. The boy cheered, Jake barked, and the two men walked hand in hand out of the creek, a baby bird held securely between them. Reaching the bank, they took the tiny wet thing to a dry spot on a tree stump. The little bird hopped several times and squawked loudly.
A robin chirped from the tree overhead. “Great job!” the boy shouted.
The two men actually shook hands before the father and son headed up the bank towards Duke Street.
I handed Jake’s leash to Bob and commented on the cooperation it took to get that baby bird out of the creek.
“Maybe it doesn’t take something big to get people to work with each other instead of against each other after all.” Bob grinned. “Maybe something small is big enough.”
