A Sewer Runs Though It

by Bruce Schimmel

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Published: May 7, 2008

I recently noticed a winding trail of whitewashed lines that mysteriously appeared in a section of Independence National Historical Park between Walnut and Chestnut, and Third and Fifth.

The lines cut a path though the grass and across walks — suggesting either an impending archaeological dig or an elaborate lawn game. It turns out to be a bit of both: The white lines mark a former waterway whose story is both appealing and appalling.

These lines are part of an evolving environmental sculpture by Winifred Lutz, called "Drawing Dock Creek." Lutz is marking the land above an ancient creek.

Lisa Godrey FROM OUT OF THE EARTH: Artist Winifred Lutz resurrects the city's first creek. (CLICK IMAGE FOR LARGER VERSION)

Dock Creek, one could say, gave birth to Philadelphia. And seeing these tracings, I first thought that the Park Service was about to disinter the creek — restoring, or "daylighting" the old waterway. Philadelphia once had scores of such creeks — most famously Mill Creek in West Philly — and like Dock Creek, most are now buried.

American Indians once paddled up this creek, which they called Coocaconoon. Early Europeans built homes along its banks. William Penn first landed in a cove nearby, where Front Street is now.

Dock Creek was the gateway to the new city. Imagine a young Franklin, fresh from Boston, hungry for his famous three rolls, washing up in its clear waters.

Only young Ben probably would have puked.

Because by 1700, the clear stream had become an open sewer — giving Dock Creek the dubious distinction of being among the first of America's environmental screwups.

By Ben's time, slaughterhouses were dumping blood and guts into its waters, adding to the waste that flowed from beermakers and tanneries. It stank — bad. Some even blamed the creek for Philly's occasional bouts of yellow fever.

As editor of the Pennsylvania Gazette, Franklin tried to clean up the mess, helping to organize citizens to petition the commonwealth for help.

But commonweath authorities ignored them, and the abuse continued. Private interests had trumped the public good, and the waterway was ruined. Sounds familiar, huh?

Eventually, Dock Creek was encased in brick, and buried — becoming the waterway, of sorts, that it is today. Under the park's grand statuary and tidy lawns flows the city's first public waterway, now a sewer. In fact, most of the city's old creeks are sewers — which many believe are best left alone.

But in the next couple of weeks, Lutz will remake the creek into a new kind of waterway. Park authorities are allowing the lawn to grow up between her white lines, creating a river of grasses, clover, dandelions and the occasional wild strawberries. Over that, from shore to shore, Lutz will weave a web of blue elastic bands.

I asked Lutz what all this means. She replied that "we always assume that wherever we're standing has always been that way."

Funny about that. Time moves forward, and can't be unwound. We can remake an old creek, but can never really re-create it. And some mistakes are best left buried.

Still, what this old creek means to you could depend on what you make of it. Literally. Lutz needs volunteers to complete the project, especially the blue elastic waterway.

To help remake Dock Creek, contact the artwork's sponsor, the American Philosophical Society, at 215-440-3427. For more on the project, go here.

(bruce@schimmel.com)

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