River Ice
Granddad said the Maumee River never flooded the same way twice. And while my memory is that mid-February is when the river ice broke up and moved out to Lake Erie, there were many times the river flooded, right in my own back yard in our house on Maumee Drive.I was allowed to play over the river bank, but in the back of my mind, I never forgot the lesson Granddad taught my sister and me: the river is in control; you do not control the river., and don’t take chances.
In my childhood, I spent hours exploring, climbing in trees, rocks, downed trees behind our house, sometimes with Elaine and Amy Heckler, sometimes by myself, often with Curt and Bea Cox’s dog, Tippy. The only time I physically hurt myself was in December when I was in 6th grade (1968). The ice wasn’t going out, but the river had come up, frozen, then receded, leaving the most fascinating icy rings around the trees below the river bank. They were at the perfect height for an 11-year-old to lean on.
These rings were fragile and fairy-like, shiny and smooth. A mittened hand glided over them. They seemed firm enough to lean on, too, and they were, for a while. It was a Saturday morning, and I had played for hours with the ice rings and the smooth ice puddles left by the receded water. I could slide, see fish, find treasures the river gods chose to deposit literally in my back yard. With Tippy, I wasn’t alone. He was a great companion pup. He was so used to me that he would come and steal my shoes off the front porch when I left them there to dry from river wading. Often, I would find just one dry shoe; one would be missing, but I knew where to find it.
Before I went back to the house after the morning of play, I leaned one last time on these fairy rings. I chose the wrong one, or perhaps it was warming up to weaken the ice. The frozen crust gave beneath me, and I cut my chin and face on the glassy shards. Lots of blood. I was scared. Tippy stayed right with me, barking to get me to get up to trudge, bleeding, up the long yard to my house. Seeing me walking from the river bank must have been alarming to my parents. Immediately, they concluded, falsely, that Tippy had bitten me, but of course he hadn’t. I tried to explain, more upset that they thought he had hurt me than that I was bleeding pretty badly. We ironed it out. They knew Tippy. I suppose my dad walked down over the river bank to find the broken crust, almost directly behind the house.
Mr. Cox must have come to get Tippy and somehow I walked by myself to Dr. Hamman’s office, up at the corner of North Street and River Road. I imagine my parents called him and he met me there on a Saturday morning. Dr. Hamman’s office always smelled like rubbing alcohol and perhaps cigars. That day, he let me in the back door, and I went right into an examination room; the tables were vinyl topped, probably green. No stitches necessary, no concussion, no teeth knocked out, but a tetanus and an antibiotic shot (I received many penicillin shots there in Dr. Hamman’s office).
After that, I stayed away from those fascinating fairy-like ice crusts, though they occurred often. I never stopped loving the river, though. And until we lost Tippy the fall of my 9th grade year, he was my constant and devoted buddy. Tippy was my first dog friend, the beginning of a line of loyal and loving dog friends.
Maumee Drive was a neighborhood. The Cox house, four doors down from mine, was my second home. The river was my companion and friend. I walked myself to the doctor, who was a call away on a Saturday morning. I had a dear, darling, dog friend. I don’t remember this detail, but I remember other times when my parents, once a situation had been assessed, said, “You’re fine. You can walk to Hamman’s office.” I was loved, but not coddled.
Granddad was right. Always respect the river, but always be grateful for the gift of living life on it.