Gosh, I don't remember.
Nah, seriously, that's a hard one for me. I don't remember much about the first five or so years of my life.
But I do recall seeing two of my younger siblings going to the creek one bright and sunny day when I knew they weren't supposed to go there, no matter what kind of day it was.
I watched them until they got close to the bank, as I stood on the back porch beside Mom while she was running clothes through a wringer washer, in true Appalachian style.
I tattled on them, and Mom made haste to run after them and chase them back up the hill to the house.
I felt very mature and quite smug, I'm sure, for saving my siblings from near death by drowning. I was four or five, I think.
I can picture the bend of that creek, the way a lovely old white-trunked sycamore curved out over it, and how it leaned enough that you could sit at the base of it to fish or to lower yourself into the water. That's where my siblings were standing that day I saved their life. :)
I still miss that old tree, gone now for decades.
I can see my Uncle Clyde nestled in that same bend of the creek with a can of worms and a fishing pole. He'd study that hole of water like a devout fundamentalist searches the Scriptures daily, always pointing out to us kids "turkles,"gar, snakes, and hellbenders (we called them water dogs).
He'd catch stringers of little bluegill and sunfish for Aunt Myrl to fry up "good and brown."
That's how she always liked them. Good and brown. That's how I like them too.
I remember how Uncle Clyde looked as he walked from his house to ours, trudging along over the hill in his denim overalls that Aunt Myrl always had to hem, because he was only about 5'2".
If it was hot, he'd take off his cap and fan his red face, then he'd pull a bandana out of his hip pocket and wipe the sweat. He usually had a big chew of tobacco in his jaw, and he'd turn his head and spurt it to the side.
Gosh, I miss him. I've done gone and made myself sad.
All the years I knew Uncle Clyde, he lived up in the holler in a modest little house, until that house burned to the ground and they were forced to move. They moved to a nearby holler into another modest little house. That move was only a mile or so away, but it liked to've killed him. They never did truly get over the loss of their home, but if you've ever been to that scenic little holler, you'll understand why.
Uncle Clyde was a veteran of the Army, and he'd traveled the world before I was born. He developed rheumatic fever and was discharged from service, and he spent the rest of his life close to home, where he'd grown up. He never did have a vehicle. I don't know if he ever learned how to drive.
He always said if he ever revisited any of the places he'd been with the Army, it would be New Zealand.
We saw him almost daily during my growing up years, and my siblings and I loved him dearly, even though he could be a bit gruff and would sometimes scold us for messing with things around the house and garden.
Isn't it crazy how when you really delve into memory, so much can surface?
This is Station Camp Creek, just a short distance from the little house where I spent the first nine years of my life. So many of my earliest memories are associated with this beautiful creek. While these trees are lovely, they don't compare with the much larger and more elegant sycamore that curved over the water in one of our favorite fishing holes.
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