Cathy Marie Bown

I grew up on property in Willow Springs, Missouri, that butted up against the Mark Twain National Forest. Indian Creek (shown above) ran through the forest and the surrounding areas.

I spent a significant amount of time exploring this creek and the forest around it. Some days I caught the school bus on the other side if the bus couldn’t safely navigate through our section of the dirt road.

I played in this water at least half of my summer every year until my late teens. I don’t remember when it started. I just remember it always being a place where I felt peaceful.

When it rained too much, the bridges would flood, and we’d be stranded in our home, unable to leave our several-mile stretch of gravel road until the water no longer swept vehicles from the narrow concrete bridges built to accommodate the seven or eight country families living on our stretch.

Likewise, for a few weeks every winter, the roads would ice over too much for vehicle travel to be safe, so we would once again find ourselves stranded at home with no way to go anywhere.

We grew up poor. Like DIRT POOR. I remember eating Mac and Cheese made with only butter or only milk because there wasn’t money to buy ingredients. But that’s a story for another day.

Back to my creek. I called it my creek because I was always there. Barefoot, wandering without parental supervision. Hell, my parents didn’t even know where we were. All they cared about was that we were leaving them alone.

In a chaotic home with parents who were overwhelmed by life, I sought refuge in nature and books. When I wasn’t reading, I was wandering the forests, creeks, and farmlands. I built play areas among the trees, sang hours of songs to myself and the poor animals that happened to be nearby, and acted out scenes from my favorite movies and books.

When I wasn’t outside playing sports with my brothers, getting lost in the scenery, or helping around the farm, I was deep in a novel. Babysitter’s Club, Girl Talk, Nancy Drew, The Bobbsey Twins, Goosebumps, or anything by Shakespeare, Poe, or Dickens. If I could dream it, I could find it in weathered pages. If I couldn’t imagine it, I knew where I could find it.

Often, I’d take a backpack loaded with five or six books with me on my nature explorations. I’d take breaks often whenever I found a nice stump or soft grassy section and read. When all of my books were finished, or the weather had turned sour, I headed home.

I read while I walked, at the store, in the school hallways, walking around my home, hiding in the hallway at Grandma’s house. My favorite memories of my childhood involve reading and nature, often together.

My Grandma Margie and I would sit on her wraparound porch, her drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette (I wish I could remember what kind), and me reading a book and watching the animals wandering around in the nearby trees. Her deck was high on one end, so you could see into the smaller treetops. I often watched squirrels and birds, and the occasional deer or coyote was an exciting spectacle.

Today was a hard day for me. I was released yesterday from a week-long stay in a psychiatric hospital. I’ll talk more about that later. This isn’t the time, and I’m not ready.

Instead of living in today, I’ve spent a large part of today living in those moments of my past. Those days spent terrorizing my brothers or them terrorizing me. Days spent swimming together at KOA with our friends and no parents. Days spent riding bicycles around the loop of our slice of childhood paradise.

Don’t mistake this for an idyllic childhood. There were nightmares lurking in every single dark corner. But today isn’t a day for fighting demons.

Today is a day for basking in the sunshine of 1990, screaming at snakes and chasing cows for fun. 1992, when the old man nearby brought his grandsons out to play, and I discovered flirting. 1994, when I read over 100 books during the summer reading program at the local library. It started June 1st. I finished in mid-July. 1996, when I would fall asleep under the stars, sleeping on the trampoline or reading on it during the day when everyone needed a break. 1998, when I discovered freedom on back-country roads in pickup trucks with boys from outside my hometown.

For me, today is a day of nicotine-stained panelling, overflowing amber-colored ashtrays, and Friday night card games at Grandma and Grandpa’s. The adults would play cards while the kids did what kids do. We created bands. We played school. We watched whatever we could find on our 7 channels on the television. I sat on top of the wood burner and read while the boys played with GI Joes.

And when the adults were properly drunk, the entire house would be covered in makeshift blanket cots, and each one would hold a sleeping cousin, aunt, uncle, brother, or parent. Breakfast was homemade by Grandma, up before the sun to make coffee, sausage, biscuits and gravy, and toast. This is where I learned that grape jelly is superior inside a giant, flaky layered biscuit, and canned biscuits are great for making donuts in the deep fryer, then dusted with cinnamon and sugar.

Sometimes it’s okay to slip back into the past. Like that smile that appears every time I see satin pajamas, the good memories are the kind of soul food that you never run out of. Pour yourself a big ol mug of happy thoughts, and if you don’t have any good childhood memories, feel free to borrow mine. It really had some amazing moments.

Until Next Time,

Cathy Marie Welton

Coming Soon: The website is getting a new look once more and a new name in December. My name has officially changed; now it’s time to change the brand.