Creek Grass

Because my father was a funeral director when I was growing up we never really went on extended vacations. Back then funeral directors were also the local rescue squad-on duty 24 hours a day-7 days a week. I remember hearing him going off into the night after an accident call had awakened him. Besides that he was dedicated to the families who came to him in grief. He treated them as he would have treated his own family.

With that said I never felt we missed out on a thing. The backfields and creek and barn with its pastures and pine trees across the road all were like a Disneyworld to me-maybe even better for there were no crowds or anyone trying to sell me a thing. It was full steam ahead for my imagination every time I stepped out the door no matter the season.

Props were everywhere for me and my cousins-from haylofts to the grain shed; empty silo to creek grass. Our parents didn't have to spend a penny to keep us amused. Mother Nature took care of that. Looking back I remember the creek grass had its own smell. To this day I turn my head going by a meandering creek which to me still looks like a great place to linger as the world rushes by for you see creek grass to us was not just creek grass. It became forts and hideaways. It'd protect us from the evils of our imaginary world or become a secret spot to sit and talk and dream. It never mattered that we might be getting wet. We never even noticed. We were off on childhood adventures-nurtured by the amazing world around us. Pretty good considering it was all free-all at our fingertips without standing in line-waiting and waiting and waiting some more.

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