Times of Uncle Ernest - Chesapeake City and Beyond– Bill Chapter 2

Times of Uncle Ernest -

Chesapeake City and Beyond– Bill

Chapter 2

"What was it like around here, Bill, before the canal was dug?"

"Boy, I'm not that old, but old timers in my day told me about it, and I've got the old maps. But don't you know there were Indians all around here before the English came? They camped along Back Creek and Broad Creek; they fished, hunted, and even planted crops all around. Here," he said, searching around in the bottom of the box until he found and placed in my hand the neatest arrowhead I'd ever seen. "And look at this," he said, turning his head to release another tobacco spurt. "See how they made their canoes; they'd fell a big tree, cut 'er to size, and burn out the middle." The sketch showed Indians burning out the center of a log. "Why, they paddled those things up and down Back Creek and Broad Creek, spearing fish, catching crabs, snaring ducks, and gigging snapping turtles."

Bill then unrolled a tattered map and traced with his knifepoint along where they used to travel. "Now, if you take this point on the map, where the old Hudson Farm was and where they probably had some teepees, you can see where they could paddle. They could go southeast along this Back Creek stream till they got to where the Back Creek Millpond is now, and they could keep going till it petered out up here into Delaware.

       "If they went west, towards the bay, they'd paddle through this swampy area here, which we now call the Basin. The Corps of Engineers dredged it out in the thirties so they'd have a place to moor their barges and tugs and other crafts. See here," he said, tapping the spot with his knife blade, "this is where the Pump House is now and here across the stream is where James Adams would build his house. He owned the Floating Theater, don't you know."

"What's a floating theater?" I asked and right away I was sorry I did, for he glared at me in disgust for a few seconds with that one eye. Then he shook his head and said that talking to me was like talking to that fence post over there. "Where else could they paddle, Bill?" I asked, imagining those canoes cutting swiftly through the water.

"Well boy, you can see that from this point they had three choices. They could swing south and head up this stream here, Wolf Creek. It would have been wider and deeper in those days. They'd paddle on past what's now Bohemia Avenue, past what was once the town dump, past the Arley Hague's Spa Springs Bottling Company, over what is now Saint Augustine Road, and pull their canoes up on the grass and bed of leaves of what was once a grand spa. And, boy, the Indians would have enjoyed this wonderful spot as much as the townspeople of Bohemia Village would have in later years. When I was your age folks called it the Campgrounds."

"Well, ah, what's so special about that place, Bill? There's nothing now but a big old white house on a bank and some other houses. I ride past it all the time on my bike."

"It was the grandest spot in the whole area, boy," he said, and his normally scornful eye seemed to gleam with remembrance of something special, as he lost for a moment his natural cynicism. "Even in the hottest, most humid time of the summer it was always cool there, boy. Dozens of giant oak trees spread high above the area and swayed with the breeze high overhead. But most enjoyable were the unspoiled mineral springs that spotted the grounds. Families from all around would picnic there on evenings and weekends. They would fill their pitchers full of the delicious, cool spring water and have a fine time."

"Did the Indians fill their pitchers too, Bill?" This broke his trance, for he spat a brown stream of juice over his shoulder, pursed his toothless mouth and glared at me, causing me to hang my head and swing my feet back and forth under the bench.

"Fool!" he snarled finally, dropping his head to make slurping sounds. "They knelt down and lapped it up like dogs. You see too many picture shows, boy. Indians were Stone Age; they couldn't even distill alcohol, and they didn't even have the wheel, don't you know."

"They smoked pipes didn't they … peace pipes, that is," I added.

"Course they did, boy, and they taught the White Man to smoke—heap big. Nowadays smoking is as common as breathing. Even women are starting it now."

"But you chew tobacco, Bill. Did the Indians chew?"

"Certainly, Boy, they weren't totally ignorant. Now, look back at this map, here at Back Creek by the Adams' house. Notice this broad stream branching north east off Back Creek, and notice that it runs east and narrows before it reaches what is now the Methodist Church and cemetery at Bethel. Well, it's another place the Indians could have paddled if they wanted to, and I'm sure they did because large white perch were plentiful there when I was a boy.

“I used to ice skate there for hours with other youngsters from town. We'd race, play hockey, and build enormous bonfires to warm our toes. The smell of smoke would fill the air, and the entire area was aglow with golden light. The Indians would not have paddled too far up Broad Creek, for after passing the area which later would become Turner's Mill, at the pond near Bethel, they would hit shallow water where the creek meandered into Delaware and eventually disappeared, leaving nothing but marshland."  [To be continued Friday, 5/11/2012]