Ethyl Remembers: Creeks and Childhood

For as long as I can remember I have had a love affair with creeks. Oceans are wonderful, full of power and life. Rivers are swift and deep and a great means for navigating the country. Lakes are great for boating and fishing and swimming. Ponds are nice for cattle and frogs and even snakes. But nothing is quite as splendid as a creek.

When I was a child we had a small creek that ran down through our pasture, but it was too small to contain more than a few craw fish and little tiny minnows. Where it flowed off our property and into the neighbor's pasture there was another little branch that converged with it, forming a rather nice stream. At certain places along the creek the water would back up into rather large pools and in these were fish. Not huge fish, mind you, like you would find in a lake or the ocean, or even a river, but small perch and brim.. My daddy used to laugh and say we caught some as long as our index finger and then some little ones.

On lazy summer afternoons we would take an old tin can with the top cut off and fill it about half full with rich soil from the barnyard and then turn over old planks and boards looking for fishing worms. When we had gathered enough to supply us for a full afternoon, we would strike off across our pasture, through the barbed wire fence that separated the two farms, with our cane fishing poles equipped with sinker and bobber in tack, thrown lazily across our shoulders, on our way to make the great catch of the summer.

Under the shade of a massive oak tree, we would plop down on the soft green moss that covered the creek bank and drop our line in the dark pool of bracken water, certain that in no time at all our fishing line would begin to bob up and down with the weight of a humongous fish, twisting and squirming in his effort to get away. We would be just as determined to hold on tight with all our might, and at last drag him onto the creek bank and into our bucket. When the bucket contained enough fish Mama would describe as 'a mess' we would end our adventure and head home, happy in the knowledge that in a short while, after our catch had been cleaned and scaled, they would be swizzling and frying in Mama's giant iron skillet.

What I remember most about those hot Mississippi summer afternoons is the coolness of the shade under the oak, the softness of the moss under our feet, the thrill of capturing our trophy, and the smile on my mother's face when we delighted in our great catch. If I had to describe the scene in color, the color would be green. Dark green pools of still water, soft green moss, summer green trees; lovely cool greens, peaceful and restful. Only childhood could produce such simple delights or such vivid memories of being extremely happy doing something so utterly simple as fishing in a pasture creek.

In a way, I feel so sorry for the majority of children living today who will never know the joy of such a simple pleasure. They are constantly bombarded with the latest gadget they simply must possess, their greatest thrill comes from some electronic video apparatus that consumes both their imagination and their time. In my opinion, such modern inventions are in many ways the thieves of childhood. How sad. It is the greatest paradox that in our modern world of cells phones and ipods and laptop computers, we have never been so connected with fellow humans and yet so terribly isolated from the human race.

How blessed we were to grow up in a time when we could experience the simple joy of creeks. Creeks to wade in, fish in, and at times, swim in. Creeks to watch with delight as they meandered through pastures, tumbled over rocks, ran clear and cold through the center of our childhood. Tishomingo County was a special place, possessor of many creeks. How fortunate we were to have lived there during that long forgotten time.