The Old Creek

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I ran barefoot down the long dirt path to pappy's creek every Sunday to catch up on school work or just to set and watch the stream rush down the rocky creek bed, and every Sunday I can remember I watched the old red tailed hawk perched on the top of the highest oak tree. My life was perfect, I had everything I wanted, I spent most of my time reading stories and writing them, my momma always told me I had a talent and should put it to use, during the week I went to school and did chores for papa at his farm. He and my mother divorced six months before I was born, but it doesn't bother me, I know they still loved me.

It was a warm July morning when my pappy told me about the stream behind his old shack, he called it the old creek. He told me he and his papa had found it when he was a young boy. I asked him if we could go see it, he chuckled and told me, " Those are the same words your father asked me forty years ago when I mentioned the old creek to him." Before the day was over pappy and I had explored every inch of the creek, I could tell he was tired, so I asked him if he was ready to go home, and he said to me "All the years I've smoked have slowed me down to an old man." I asked him why he smoked those smelly things, he grinned and informed me that being a man and looking out for folks can make someone a nervous wreck."

He sat down on a large moss covered rock and started whistling a pleasant toon. I grabbed a couple small stones and chucked them into the stream, the minnows in the area all darted away. Yawning I laid next to pappy listening to him whistle, my eyes became heavy so I closed them, pappy's toon became faint as I drifted into sleep. Four months later my mother awoke me and told me my father was on the phone and he wanted to talk to me, a sad expression overtook her face. Quickly I stumbled out of bed wiping the sleep from my eyes as I went into the kitchen. The phone was off the ringer I picked it up and put it to my ear, I asked my father why momma looked so sad, sighing he said, " Son, you know your grandfather loved you..." Before he said it I new what was wrong, tears streamed down my face as papa told me that my pappy had died that night in his sleep.

Every Sunday during the summer I ran down the long dirt path to pappy's creek and every Sunday I wrote a story to lay on pappy's grave.





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