When I Was Just a Little Girl

A trip down to the crik bottoms reveals all kinds of treasures. Those that you can see, and those that can't see.

When I was nine, I wanted to be an archeaologist.  I was determined to find fossils or the remains of a civilization in my backyard.  I started digging holes looking for this or that, never finding anything of course.

 

One warm Sunday afternoon, my Da was working on a tractor in the shed.  He had come up to the house and noticed me digging.  I wasn't digging where he mowed.  I was careful of that, but he still didn't want holes in his yard. 

 

I was wearing my shorts and terry cloth sleeveless T-shirt purchased for a dime at a local garage sale.  No shoes.  I never wore shoes in the summer.  Those had to be saved for when we went to town and for winter, provided I hadn't outgrown them by that time. 

 

Ma was in the house preparing to fix dinner.  She was trying to keep an eye on my sister and do the kitchen chores at the same time.  My brother was outside with me making roads with the cars we had.  Occasionally one would "plumet" down the cliff which was part of the hole I was digging. This annoyed me to no end.  This was serious business to me.

 

"What are you doing?" My Da asked.

 

I didn't answer him at first cuz I thought I was in trouble.  But the look in his eye told me otherwise. So I told him what I was up to.

 

"C'mon." He waved us to him and we followed him into the house.  He told Ma something which she protested.

 

"Willie, I don't want them gettin dirty."

 

"They are already dirty." He indicated my dirt smudged knees and the swath of dirt on my shorts where I wiped my hands.  My brother was not much better. 

 

She sighed.  "Go get your long pants on and your old shoes."

 

We looked at each other and grinned.  That meant we were going to the bottoms.

 

The air was heavy with heat and humidity even under the canopy of leaves.  It was full summer with everything at it's peak ripeness before it would start dying in a week.  But until then everything was large, green, and full of life. 

 

The sun danced on the forrest floor in a dappled display of gold and shadow. The birds filled the air with song, the Whip o Wills, Bob Whites, wrens, finches, chickadees, screaming Blue Jays, the hollow sound of a Red Headed Woodpecker off in the distance. The smell of growing things is a heady array of rotting leaves, rich soils, and green growing things.

 

Flowers were dotted here and there peeking out from beneath heavy leaves and lending a splash of color in the emerald sea.  Violets, Buttercups, Dandelions, Daisies, Bleeding Hearts, Bluebelles, Queen Anne's Lace, Clovers, Black Eyed Susans, Jack n the Pauper, and my Ma's favorite, Sweet Williams.  She loved them because that was my Da's name and they smelled so sweet. 

 

We would pick a few on our way back up as an offering to our Ma.  She would fill a little plastic cup with water and place it on the kitchen counter by the sink so that she could enjoy them while she was washing dishes. 

 

The path wended down, down, down, until we were on the valley floor and out by the edge of the first field.  It had corn on it this year, which was almost taller than my Da.  In another week or two it would be.  We followed the tractor tracks to the first crik crossing. 

 

The smaller crik burbled happily over rounded stones and sandy silt.  The sun sparkled on the water causing us to squint.  Da helped us jump across and we walked along the second field, also planted with corn.  We walk until Da found the hidden path and we work our way towards our destination.

 

Carefully we duck beneath thorny bushes and deftly hop over fallen trees.  Even with our obvious caution we still managed to get ragged scratches on our arms and hands, and snags in our clothing. 

 

Down a steep embankment, then, carefully, we balance our way across another fallen tree crossing the big crik at its narrowest spot.  Here the waters are deeper and swifter.  Minnows flitted to and fro beneath the current and frogs swiftly darted away from the noise we were making.

 

Excited we started grabbing flat rocks to skim on the water.  My Da watched us.  I wondered what he saw.  My brother was skinny with his blonde hair in a chilli bowl hair cut and a broad grin.  My brother always used to smile.  Not so much anymore.  It was a big toothy grin with dimples accompanied by bright twinkling blue eyes full of mischief. 

 

After a few failed attempts to get our rocks to skim more than two times.  My Da showed us his technique.  We watched in awe as one rock skipped five times and the next one, seven.  I tried again and was thrilled to get three. 

 

Then he took us further downstream and knelt by the water.  He started pulling rocks out of the water and from the ground.  These rocks had fossilized seashells, leaf imprints, petrified wood.  He also found indian beads, and arrowheads.  I was in heaven.

 

After awhile my Da checked the position of the sun and decided we needed to head back.  We gathered up our treasures and crossed back over a different part.  My Da cautioned me against some bull nettle on the embankment.  My hand ended up finding it anyway.  Nothing like the sting of bull nettle.  I think it's worse than a wasp sting fer sure. 

 

We got there in time to wash up and set the table.  Fresh green beans, pork chops, mashed taters, bread with butter, and a glass of cold milk.  Beside my plate were all the fossils I had found that day.  I was far to excited to be parted from my little treasures just yet.   

Reviews

[Jason Venturi]

I can see the joy of the child finding anything old. The story shows me a great picture of youth.
I especially like it because I wanted to be an archeaologist when I was a child. This story reminds me not to forget about youth's dreams.