I spent a good deal of my boyhood playing in the woods. There was a particular creek I spent much of my early childhood playing in–it’s called Hurricane Creek. It was a thirty second walk from the house where I spent Kindergarten through sixth grade. It’s in Hoover, Alabama, a southern suburb of Birmingham.

Older kids had hacked their way through the woods to build a bridge. One carelessly left a machete on the worksite and my friend Tim, a little boy klepto, stole it and took it back to his house. We had wonderful fun hacking bits and pieces out of trees and fence posts for the next three months. Until of course, Tim lost it, which is what Tim did quite a bit.

I lived in those woods. I built fires and explored caves. When it rained, the creek became a raging river and once I rafted down part of it.

Developers decided to make houses and cleared the path. We, in protest, tore up the surveyors’ stakes that were flagged with orange tape.

Now, finally, the creek has become exclusive houses for the neauvo riche. It’s not the same small town I grew up.