A SPECIAL PLACE

I close the book I was reading. I lean back against a tree and watch the autumn leaves flutter through the air before landing on the glassy surface of the creek at this special place.

My eyes pick out a single leaf, still clinging to the tree above me. It moves with the gentle breeze until a gust of wind causes it to relax its grip and start its dance to the water.

The water slightly ripples when it lands. It just sits there for a moment as if resting. The current grabs it, and it floats away. I watch until I can no longer see it. I wonder how far it will travel until it reaches its final resting place.

With the leaf gone, my eyes turn to the beauty of the trees surrounding me. Their colors reflect in the water. My ears listen to the soothing sounds of flowing water. My mind wanders back to all the memories we have made at this special place, on this creek, in this valley.

It is called Bull Creek. It starts as a gurgling spring and then winds its way for many miles through the hills and valleys of the Missouri Ozarks until it reaches Lake Taneycomo near Branson. Along the journey, it meanders along under rusted bridges, past limestone bluffs, old cemeteries, open fields, and a cabin in a valley we once owned on a bluff above the creek.

Near the cabin is a natural waterfall that cascades down the hill into Bull Creek. We could hear and see it from the deck of our cabin. During summer, we hung hummingbird feeders all around. Hundreds of hummingbirds entertained us with their diving, buzzing, and chirping sounds.

Birds of all kinds serenaded us with their songs. At times, frogs added to the chorus. Deer, turkey, foxes, coyotes, and other wildlife roamed the valley. It was one of the first places where black bears started returning to Missouri.

We only owned a few acres, but our neighbors were kind enough to let us use their hundreds of acres like ours. In return, we helped them with whatever they needed to get done. They were like family to us.

Thousands of acres of the Mark Twain National Forest surrounded our cabin on three sides. That, along with our neighbor’s land, gave us  multitudes of places to hike, hunt, explore, and ride our ATVs.

Down the road below the cabin, rushing water had carved a deep hole perfect for fishing, swimming, snorkeling, playing in the water, and relaxing. It is here that I sit, book in hand, staring at the water and thinking about all the memories.

We spent many happy hours here. It is where one grandson and a granddaughter caught their first fish. So did our Wisconsin grandsons when they came to visit. Some of them are now married and living in other states. Others are in college or finishing high school. It will not be long until they take their kids somewhere to catch their first fish.

The Missouri grandkids spent many weekends with us at the cabin. They learned to hunt deer, turkey, and squirrel in that valley. They grew up riding ATVs for hunting and pleasure on the many roads and trails. Christmas at the cabin with grandkids was special.

Spring rains would nearly always flood the valley. The power of that water was something to behold and fear. Spring also meant dogwoods, redbuds, and wildflowers blooming all over the valley. I always looked forward to the sounds of peeper frogs, whip-poor-wills, and turkey gobbles announcing that spring had arrived.

As early summer started, it was time to take the annual first swim of the year in the cold, spring-fed creek. A tradition for our grandkids was to push their Papa into the water. They would laugh as I came up screaming and gasping for air. They always thought I was kidding. I was not.

As summer continued, this special place played host to family, friends, and neighbors. Fishing continued, air mattresses dotted the water, and lawn chairs lined the banks. We swam, we played, we made memories.

Saving tadpoles trapped in little pools of water and moving them safely to the creek was a favorite grandkid activity. Catching crawdads was enjoyed by young and old alike. Those rotten grandkids would laugh when Papa would get pinched by an upset crawdad.

The clear waters of Bull Creek made snorkeling a popular thing to do for everyone who visited. The underwater world was fascinating. Bluegill would swim right up to your face or nibble at you as you floated along in the water. Bass and hog suckers did not want anything to do with these homo sapiens that had invaded their home and would skitter along ahead. Sunfish usually guarded their nests or hid back under a rock ledge. Multitudes of colorful baitfish would swim around in schools in the swift water.

I remember taking some lobster claws and placing them where they stuck out under a rock ledge so they would look like the granddaddy of all crawdads lurking under a rock. I then watched as our neighbor snorkeled closer and closer to where I had hidden them. I still laugh when I think about the look on his face when he came up out of the water.

If you were lucky, or unlucky, depending on your fear of snakes, visitors might even get the chance to swim along with a 4-foot-long water snake. No, it was not a fake snake, and I am not scared of snakes. At least as long as I knew they were not poisonous.

I was a little nervous once, though. I dangled a crappie jig in front of this same snake. Then it struck at it. The hook stuck in its mouth. I did not have experience unhooking a writhing, mad water snake. I was sure thankful the line broke before I figured it out.

When it was hot outside, and no one else was around, It was cool and relaxing going to the creek, sitting in a lawn chair in the water under the shade of a big old tree, and reading a good book. I could usually get through a few chapters before flowing water lulled me to sleep.

As summer turned to fall, I still enjoyed taking a book to the creek. If grandkids came down, we fished or had rock skipping contests. When our Wisconsin grandkids came down to the cabin, they liked find rocks with holes in them or what they called beautiful rocks on the gravel bar. They also enjoyed riding the ATVs with one of us adults.

It was the time of year when you might surprise a pair of wood ducks as they paddled along in the water, catch a glimpse of a whitetail deer or wild turkey at the edge of the water, or even see a beaver busily working on his winter home.

We still went to the cabin when winter arrived. I would see the frozen water along the sides of the creek. Icicles would hang from the bluffs surrounding the valley. Snow in the fields and forests made it even more special for hiking or riding around. Sometimes, I saw an eagle perched in a tree or flying overhead. I would sit and enjoy the peaceful serenity. The wood stove felt good when I got back to the cabin.

I also liked to go to the old cemetery on the neighbor’s land and did so often. Flat rocks with names scratched in them or gravestones, marked the graves of Civil War soldiers and those who had settled and worked this land long ago. I liked to sit there and wonder what it was like when these people were on this land.

As the grandkids got older, they stopped coming. So did the adult kids. This special place had lost its magic to them. They would go boating and fishing on lakes or do other things. They got busy with their own lives.

My wife and I got older too. It was hard to keep up with things around the cabin. We sold the cabin on the bluff to a young couple with twin 6-year-old girls. They now make memories there.

I still come back once in a while like I did this day. I always stop at the waterfall to watch and listen. I sit there and look up at the cabin on the bluff. All the memories flood my mind.

The leaves continue to fall and now cover the water like a multi-colored blanket. I stand, put my book under my arm, wipe the tears from my eyes, and soak in the beauty before I get in my truck to drive back home to my wife.

She knows how much this special place means to me. I have told her that when the good Lord calls me home, I want my ashes scattered near the creek where we made memories and the old cemetery. I was also a part of this valley.

When I am almost home, I pass our church. During the many years we owned the cabin, we went there every weekend and not church. I told everyone we could worship God and all he created at the cabin in the valley.

I believe God had a hand in us finally letting go of our cabin in the valley. I believe God also led us to Sac River Cowboy Church. Before we bought the cabin, we had attended several churches, but none like this one. It is family.

A praying church that is always there to help others in any way they can.

It is now our special place and for many others. I was not always the man I am now because of this church. My ashes will also be there, with a dogwood tree planted over them. This special place changed my life. It may not be a cabin in the woods in a valley with a creek. Special places can be anywhere – even a church. Everyone needs to have a special place.