my dear, beloved creek

For as long as I can remember, I have always loved creeks. Stream, brook, or branch may sound more poetic, but I prefer creek – although I like to pronounce it “crick” (krik).

My love of creeks obviously began during my family’s summer visits to Long Branch, home to Green Acres, the farm of my maternal grandparents. Their white, two story farmhouse sat among lots of green, rolling hills, a few little caves, a county road leading to “the store”, a spring awash with salamanders, a hefty herd of cattle, a wooden bridge, and my dear, beloved creek.

Two weeks of my summers were spent at Green Acres visiting with grandparents, uncles, aunts, and bunches of cousins. A favorite memory of the farmhouse was drifting off to sleep to the musical sound of rain on the tin roof. I enjoyed trekking around the hills just exploring or lying on my back watching the clouds float by. Sometimes along the road, I’d peer into the tiny caves wondering if some creepy creature would jump out. The openings were barely large enough for an arm, but I was never that adventuresome. We cousins often begged our parents for permission to walk to the store. Early on, it was a wonderful dusty dirt country road. Progress appeared and it was eventually paved. The store sold gas, candy, drinks, ice cream, other stuff, and was a library. My favorite treat was an RC Cola and a bag of peanuts to pour into the bottle. Oh, and the bottle was glass, not plastic. I was fond of playing with the salamanders that lived in the spring. The water trickling from the springhouse was the purest I’ve ever tasted. One year, my dad killed a rattlesnake at the spring. It was amusing to watch the cows pass along their predictable paths from dawn ‘till dusk. One favorite pastime was hanging my legs off the side of Granddaddy’s wooden bridge and tossing rocks into the water below.

What can I say about Granddaddy’s creek – my dear, beloved creek? Of those two weeks each summer, my best memories surround that meandering creek. The water was deepest under the bridge, and one summer, several of us dug a hole wide enough to swim in. I enjoyed taking a stroll along the creek, collecting fascinating rocks while keeping my toes away from crawdads. I wonder if throwing rocks about actually kept the snakes away, or was it our noisy talking and laughing? When resting in the sun on a small, flat boulder, I often would close my eyes and listen to the soft melody of the carefree water flowing along its rocky bed on a journey far, far away.

Sometimes, I still yearn for just one more summer day spent along my dear, beloved creek.

Like dreams, small creeks grow into mighty rivers.
Author: Unknown

As water reflects a face, so a man's heart reflects the man.
Proverbs 27:19 (NIV)

The words of a man's mouth are deep waters, but the fountain of wisdom is a bubbling brook.
Proverbs 18:4 (NIV)