The Park
Growing up a block away from Pennypack Park, we naturally spent much of our time there.
While most city kids were hanging at shopping centers or on street corners or in playgrounds, our
crowd hung out in the woods.
On any given day, any season of the year, you could usually find at least a few of us somewhere in the woods. During the summer, we were at the Pavillion or on a grassy patch under a large oak tree near the waterfall. In winter, we went to our “clubhouse” which we built from pilched materials from a nearby construction site. They were building an upscale apartment complex which had buildings with six units for rent but also had townhomes which you could purchase.
Upon entering the park on our side of the neighborhood, there was a steep incline which leveled off to a narrow path. Follow the path across a small streambed, which was usually dry unless it had just rained then turn to cross a small, wooden bridge. After crossing the bridge you could go straight up a hill through a part of the park where the path was thickly covered by trees and undergrowth (the way to our clubhouse), or you could turn and continue on a wide bridle path. Either way you chose would lead you to a big brick bridge crossing the creek. After the bridge, the creek soon spilled into a twenty foot waterfall. The water was deep and murky, but after the fall it was so shallow you could cross most of it using the rocks as stepping stones. The falls were slippery, but some were brave enough to try to cross them. I must admit, I thought I was that brave soul, but one slip and it was back on dry land for me, but that is another story.
The calm, dark, waters of our neighborhood paradise drastically changed after a rain. The current ran fast and fierce under the bridge to the drop off. The water at the top of the waterfall ran wall to wall across the algae-covered stones at the top of the man-made falls, from the bank on the north side to a literal wall on the south side. Fallen tree branches rushed through the water like arrows in a medieval battle. The water roared over the side of the falls creating a churning white pool at the bottom and swooshed around a fallen tree that was partially on one side of the wall and partially in the water. The rapids rushed over the rocks where the water was shallow and flowed quickly under the overpass where cars raced to and from a variety of destinations on the boulevard. The creek continued for a few miles east, emptying into the Delaware River.
One Friday night in early summer, my best friend’s younger sister attended her first co-ed party. Linda’s mother asked if we would stay close to home in case Mandy needed something. We were sixteen at the time and nearing the end of our days in the woods; she was twelve. During the party, some of the kids decided to go into the park. Coincidentally, my younger brother and some of his friends decided to camp out in the park that night.
There had been a lot of rain the week preceding this particular Friday night and the water level of the creek was high. So high, that the waterfall flowed over the entire width of the wall (which was usually dry for a few feet on either side). The rocks below, usually exposed enough to use as stepping stones to cross the mini-rapids, were inundated.
Just as it was getting dark, Linda and I were interrupted from our heated backgammon game. It was Mandy and she was hysterical. One of the boys at the party, showing off, tried to cross the waterfall and fell into the murky, rock-filled water below. We tried to calm Mandy, and succeeded to a degree, but she was still visibly shaken and, in retrospect, possibly in shock. We took her home and handed her off to Linda’s mother.
It was a morbid curiosity which led Linda and I to venture into the park at night. I think now it was also the helpless and confused feelings about the potential death of someone we knew in a place where we always felt safe and secure.
As you can imagine, the park at night is pitch black. Finding our way was no problem – we knew the park like we knew our own homes. We could find the big bridge just as easily as we could find our bathroom in the middle of the night. However, the park was not home and after leaving the comforting glow of the street lights at the entrance of the park, it was eerie and spooky in the complete black of night. So, there we were, two sixteen-year-old girls, no flashlight (clearly we weren’t Girl Scouts), clutching each other’s hands (and a steak knife) almost tight enough to cut off the circulation, making our way down the usual trail at this unusual time for this unbelievable reason.
We crossed the wooden bridge and made the left turn onto the bridle path. Still dark as pitch – you couldn’t get used to the dark as there was no light whatsoever to help you even see the outline of your hand against the blackness. We started getting spooked. As we walked toward the big bridge we quietly called out the names of my brother and his friends: “Max, Robert, Harry.” No response. We half expected one of them to jump out of the darkness and scare us to death.
Even though the bridle path was wide, we were still in the woods. Occasionally, a low leaf-covered branch or a tree growing close to the trail would brush against us and we’d jump and a little scream would escape. The sound of crickets and frogs surrounded us in the darkness. And the random hoot of an owl would cause us to clutch hands even tighter. Every once in a while, we’d hear a rustle and wonder what animal was about to cross our path. I recalled there were bats and wondered if at that moment they were hanging in the trees just above our heads.
As we neared the big bridge, a light dawned through the tenebrous woods. There were spotlights and dragging equipment and cars and people everywhere. Much of the area was roped off and you couldn’t get near the bridge.
One of the police officers noticed us standing on the path approaching the big bridge. He walked over to us, the spotlight he held illuminating the way.
“What are you girl’s doing here at this hour?” he asked. “Get home, girls. There’s nothing you can do here.” He added a warning about the dangers of two young girls in the woods alone at night.
He allowed us through the barrier. We paused for a moment to watch the men dragging to see if we could catch a glimpse of the boy. The cop ushered us on to the trail leading to the street. At the top of the hill, we peered over the Bensalem Bridge, the overpass where the boulevard crossed the park, for one more look at the waterfall and the men trying to recover the boy’s body.
We went home in a somber mood, thinking about death and darkness.
They found the boy’s body upstream late the next day. We thought about that boy often that summer and sometimes still think about him when some dumb kid drowns in some local creek after a heavy rain.
