Once Upon A Creek

Oh, the creek. My thoughts. My dreams. The clear, quiet rippling water with its crawdads and minnows. The loud roar of a small creek during a flood. The calm, clear high water after the flood.

The creek was. I didn't give it a lot of thought. But I "thought" many, many hours while staring into the clear ripples. Sitting on the gravel near the creek, I dreamed the dreams young girls dream. It was "my" place. There was just enough of a creekbank so that I could hide behind it and not be seen from the house. The creek coud be so PEACEFUL. (And let me tell you, I can skip rocks with the best of them from the practice I had while"thinking").

Our house was basically in a valley but sitting on a small knoll. When the creek "got out of its banks," as small streams do very quickly with heavy rains, I was, when I was small, afraid it would come up and wash away our house. It always stopped just short of the knoll, not that far away. Before the creek escaped its boundaries, it was a roaring train, taking with it everything in its path. We watched trees washing down that body of swelling water. We threw in sticks to watch them bounce down the creek. A "flood" was great reason for excitement, and nature gives the best!

There were many times when the creek spilled from its banks and filled the field almost up to our house. The most memorable time for me is when the tractor and wagon were sitting in the field. The water isn't that swift once it's out of the banks but it still carries a bit of power.
My dad asked one of my brothers to wade down to the tractor and unfasten the wagon, for he feared a log would catch it and carry the whole thing down the stream. The wagon was unhooked, and lo and behold, it went floating down the field and creek. Whoopee!

The creek didn't have a bridge to wash out, and it always filled up with fresh, loose gravel in the crossing. My dad would figure out the best way to ford the creek by finding where it was most solid. The interesting part was when visitors, usually relatives from afar, came across the creek, they inevitably sunk into the fresh gravel and sand, and out came the tractor to the rescue.

There were, of course, times when that little creek became such a monster that nobody could cross it. It had a footlog. The footlog was a large tree that had been felled across the creek. It was fastened with a log chain to a tree or roots at the high bank. At the lower bank, on the opposite side, I think it was loosely tied. Above it, from one tree to another, was a strong rusty cable that one could hold onto while crossing the footlog. That cable was literally a lifeline.
I was terrified of crossing the creek especially when the waters below were swirling and angry from flooding. "Don't look down. Don't look down."

We needed to traverse the creek to go to school, so the footlog was a daily experience.
In addition to the main stream, we had to cross two other branches that flowed into it . Those we could usually cross by stepping on rocks and jumping from one to another, getting our feet a little wet, at times. Those smaller tributaries could roar, also. One flowed along side of my grandparents' house. The other crossed the main road. I remember one time that first little nothing branch was high enough that Dad put a blanket over the hood and blasted through it. I was frightened!

In the spring of my 17th year, coming home from a date when all the streams were out of their banks, I convinced my boyfriend to just let me out of the car right before the third branch from the house. I knew I could go around it if I walked up the bank, found a barb-wire fence and followed it to my grandparents' house, thus avoiding the first two creeks. He didn't hesitate much that I recall! So, there I was, in total darkness, finding and holding onto a barbed fence, walking through tons of wet leaves. (I'm a brave girl)! I don't think I attempted the last footlog, and, therefore, spent the night at my grandparents' house. No way of communicating that to my parents without phones, but that's creek living.

One experience I'll never forget is one time when the footlog, which it sometimes did, washed away from the lower bank, and could not be crossed. My dad went some distance in a field further up the creek and felled a tree across the creek, so we could get to the school bus. The pool over which the log rested was clear and deep and COLD from the recent flood. I've always had ear problems and bad balance, vertigo, and a fear of falling. I did NOT want to cross that log with no cable to hold onto, but I DID want to go to school. I remember I had books and a little clear zipper purse with tangee lipstick in it. I remember falling into that COLD creek. I remember going onto my grandma's house, but I don't think I made it to school that day. By the way, the water was COLD.

Summers in the creek were something! Down the creek was a pool deep enough for swimming and playing. Summers were so hot, and the days were long. There wasn't air conditioning, surprise, surprise! I remember doing what many MO kids did, sitting under a shade tree drinking water from a pint or quart jar. But mostly, I remember the creek. Our clothesline was full of jean shorts and such all the time because my three brothers and I went to the swimmin' hole several times a day if we wanted.

The thing I remember most about swimmin' were the leaches and occasionally the snakes. I wasn't as big a fan as my brothers of the swimmin' hole because I didn't like either (snakes or leaches--and sometimes my three brothers). That's putting it mildly. First, we would splash to bring on the leaches. Then the brothers would catch them and pound them between rocks. These leaches were four or five inches long and fat with blood. They just didn't want to die. Later when I saw what they called leaches in Texas County, I couldn't believe those little short, brown mini-babies. I guess I was pretty over-careful because I don't remember ever getting one of those blood suckers on me.

The creek remains in my heart and soul, and I have memory pictures (in my mind) that I will hang onto forever. Once I sat on the banks and dreamed. Now I dream I'm sitting on the banks . . .