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A creek is no place for shoes. I think it’s unreasonable to ask children to keep their shoes on in such a place. My bare feet were always covered with calluses from walking down the rough road. It was hard to see from the road, and as far as I could tell, nobody ever went there- except for me. Large pines nearby stood tall and erect, looking down at the ripples and currents that nudged each other about playfully, like children in the back seat of a car on a long drive. Stones and pebbles lined the shallow bottom and allowed the water to glide in creative patterns over their smooth surfaces. Larger, moss-covered rocks dotted the bank and provided ideal spots for a child to sit and watch and wonder. The creek often taught me things; it was my mentor. Once I discovered tadpoles in several of my many eddies and stagnant pools that lines the small river. A cupped hand and a cleaned out mayonnaise jar aided me in clumsily scooping up some of the more slothful individuals. With muddy hands and knees, I set them on the kitchen table, and watched them daily as they developed into tiny frogs. I was fascinated by what was taking place before my eyes, but new questions constantly puzzled me. Dad was usually responsible for answering the