Young Jack went to war. And came back.

I was laying face down in about ten inches of water. Thank goodness no one was around as they would have assumed me dead or a lunatic. 

It was sometime in August, about 15 years ago. The water I was laying face down in was just below a pool of Spunk Creek. I had picked this spot because it was directly below a low field stone spillway. It seems odd that we call it field stone when it is in a creek? Maybe it’s actually “creek stone”? I digress.

“Why”, you ask, “was I face down in a shallow creek? “

Having grown up along the banks of Spunk Creek and spent many hours and days “in” the creek I had always wanted to explore it below the water with a scuba mask. So this is what I found myself doing on this hot day in August. 

As I floated just above the rock, gravel and sand I marveled at the micro-environment that existed just below the water. The bubbles created by the water spilling over and down the rocks as it poured out of the pond filtered the sunlight in a way I had never experienced. In fact everything that I saw that day I saw for the first time, from a perspective never before seen. 

While I cast about appreciating every little minute and mundane detail my eye caught something that didn’t belong? It was neither mineral, vegetable or animal? It was too fine, too perfect, too linear - too … unnatural. I reached over and plucked it from the sand with the index and middle finger of my right hand and stood up. 

Even through the green, brown, rusty coating I recognized it immediately as a State of Minnesota drivers license. But due to all the hardened slime I could not make out any details. Reaching down for a handful of sand from the creek bottom I used that to rub clean the drivers license. 
By now I was fascinated to find out whose it was? What name would appear as applying vinegar to a paper with “invisible” ink on it. It read:

B-622-429-xxx-xxx 1-5-68 Expires

JOHN ALBERT B………….

AVON

MINN 56310

XX-XX-48 BRN GRN 5-10 155

Until age 16 must be accompanied by Driver Education Instructor or Parent or Guardian

(I’ve purposely left out some key personal information)

My mind raced and did some quick math … this drivers license had not “just” been lost! This had been in Spunk Creek for at least 40 years! 

And looking at it closer I realized it wasn’t a drivers license but a driver's permit .. given his age and the restriction about being accompanied while driving. I imagined a 15 or 16 year old John running through the creek in the spring after fish. And I bet that is when he lost it! I wonder if he even was after Northerns (illegally) and was being chased by the game warden? 

Studying the name and information some more I realized that John B was of the age where he very likely could have been sent to Vietnam? I wondered aloud if he did go, did he make it back? 

I tucked the driver's permit in my pocket and headed home. 

It was about a week later before I finally tried to track down this John B., thinking maybe he still lived in the area? Nowhere in the phone book could I find a John B. There was however a Jack A. B., so I called him. Figured some John’s end up going by Jack. 

On the second ring a voice answered, “This is Jack.” 

“Hello, I’m looking for a John B.”, I said. 

“Well, my name is John, but everyone calls me Jack”, said Jack. 

“Jack, I found something that I think belongs to you”, I replied. And told him about the driver's permit I found, where I found it and when I found it. I did not share with him my hypothesis of how he may have lost it or whether or not he had gone to Vietnam.

“Yer shittin’ me!”, says Jack. And as Jack continued to speak, the hair on the back of my neck began to stand up … and it still does everytime I tell this story.  

“I lost that right before I was drafted into Vietnam. When I returned I had a hell of a time getting my driver’s license  because I had lost that permit. And just last week I was driving down Kreigle Lake Road heading one way and here comes Jimmy Hoffarth the other way. We stopped alongside each other directly over the culvert with Spunk Creek running through it and beneath us. We talked about the old times, when we were young. I asked him if he remembered that time we were spearing Northerns out of season and got chased by the Game Warden. And I lost my driver's permit! Remember that?”, I said to Jimmy. 

This time it was my turn, “Yer shittin me!”, I said to Jack. 

“Nope. Say, I’d kinda like to get that back.”, Jack asked.

It took several years for a host of reasons, none of them very good, but I did finally get Jack his driver’s permit back … nearly 50 years later. He is a delightful bachelor, living life completely on his own terms with two black labs, a grin on his face and a devilish twinkle in his eye. 

I’m glad he made it back from Vietnam, especially when so many did not. And I told him that. 

Jack was drawn to the creek as a young person in exactly the same way and for many of the same reasons I was, though I did not actually spear Northerns out of season. Though it was tempting and I did think about it. 

Our experiences of being drawn to the creek in our youth were separated by two decades, but we are only recent visitors to this special place. Native peoples have been visiting this landscape, this specific and special place within the Avon Hills for thousands of years. 

The season when the Northerns, walleye, suckers, carp and other species run up the creek is nearly upon us. Spunk Creek is unique in this part of the country in that it is a fast moving creek, it bends, shoots and curves as it finds its way among the hills as it has for thousands of years. Fish runs and their spawning season often coincides with Maple Syruping, so if you’re fortunate you’ll experience both. 

We hope that you will find the time to also come and see for yourself what is so special and what has spoken to so many for so long as they walk along the banks of Spunk Creek, and maybe in it too.

Hope to see you at the Folk School.