Most Arkansas communities have places close to the hearts and memories of those who live there. Since early childhood, mine has been Crooked Creek.
Originating south of Harrison, the blue ribbon smallmouth stream meanders through the rolling Ozarks and pasturelands of Boone and Marion counties.
My affection for this remarkable clear stream dates to outings with my late father. The World War II veteran introduced me at age 10 to the brilliant hues of sun perch, the golden sheen of hard-fighting brown bass and the indelible magic a creek teeming with life creates in a child's mind.
Fluctuating anywhere from a dozen feet to as many yards in width, I came to cherish everything about her, even to her familiar smells and sound as we negotiated an overgrown road down to the banks. Nothing felt better on a summer's day than becoming submerged in her clear, cooling eddies and deeper holes.
As I grew into manhood with children of my own, it became only natural that I'd introduce them to Crooked Creek.
They, too, became immediately captivated by its charms. What child wouldn't? With various species of fish, wildlife, and insects to explore, all set to a soundtrack of rejoicing birds, the experience is akin to venturing into a nursery of life itself.
As son Brandon grew into adulthood, we vowed to visit the creek together at least once each year when the weather warmed. There was no better setting for a father and son to renew bonds, especially over a Father's Day weekend. Our last few adventures of wading well over a mile along slippery rocks and through occasional rapids had become increasingly more challenging for a man in his late 60s with a chrome hip.
But on this Father's Day weekend, Brandon, now 46, stepped up to tote a weighty backpack filled with water and food for a midday picnic at our favorite hole.
I also share this today because this was 10-year-old granddaughter Elizabeth's introduction to Grandpa's most naturally tranquil escape (outside of Gaston's on the White River). She and Brandon had arrived the night before and we prepared for Elizabeth's rite of passage, which only fueled her excitement.
Awakening to thunder, we debated before choosing to get risky and push ahead. Good decision. By 10 a.m. the skies had cleared, the sun was beating down and the four of us were already wading toward the first shoals. Elizabeth quickly caught the first of 30 fish, reeling in a sun perch the size of her hand.
Her smiling eyes set the tone for the rest of the day. She intentionally stepped from ankle-deep gravel bars into the waist-deep pools just for the breathtaking thrill (and to cool down). When they tired from reeling in one fish after another or catching crawdads in the eddies, she and Jeanetta sprawled together in the rapids letting the flow rush around them.
My mind flashed to Brandon and me doing the same thing years earlier. And I recalled an afternoon 60 years ago when my father embedded a hook in his finger. I'd immediately began sprinting back up the creek when he asked, "Where are you going?" I explained I was going for help. "But son, I don't need help!" he'd shouted back. So many recollections of previous trips.
I pointed to several hardwood trees that when I was a child weren't even near the bank but now leaned severely toward the water with their root balls exposed. "Elizabeth, in another 10 years they, too, will have been undercut by years of flooding and wound up in the creek." She nodded and kept reeling.
There just wasn't much interest in ecology when so much fascination was at hand. Brandon, a remarkably patient father, helped his daughter master her casts and explained where best to place the lures. He was passing along what he'd been taught. Energized Elizabeth never tired. Hours later, though, she would crash into exhausted sleep.
As afternoon shadows lengthened, she finally (and appropriately) caught the day's biggest fish in a hole where swift water pooled. Her prize was a brownie measuring 17 inches which, after careful examination, was sent swimming home.
Now she'd experienced her earliest memory of a perfect day on Crooked Creek, as had my father, me and my son. As we packed the scraps of our picnic and began sloshing back against the current toward the car, I asked what the favorite part of her day had been. She smiled wide without hesitation said, "catching fish and falling down in the water."
I feel certain Brandon will bring his daughter back to this place so dear to him and his family.
In the end, if fortunate, all we retain are memories of this lifetime. On this perfect day, more were made across three generations. So, dear Elizabeth, should the day come when you bring your children to this creek for their rite of passage, do so remembering your first day shared with those who loved you dearly and wanted you to know the unique joys Crooked Creek brought to them and for you on the Father's Day you met.
------------v------------
Mike Masterson is a longtime Arkansas journalist. Email him at [email protected].
Editorial on 06/20/2017