SAVING PANTHER CREEK

Born in 1927 in a small Missouri town, my grandmother and her nine brothers and sisters lived in a large white farmhouse surrounded by rolling fields and thick woods. Across the narrow gravel road that traveled past the house ran a shallow brook that is known today as Panther Creek.

One hot summer day nearly 20 years ago, I visited this creek and was inspired by my grandmother's incredible memories of her life along its banks. This was the day that my family and I saved Panther Creek.

That day 10 of us piled into pickup trucks and headed towards an old gravel road deep in the countryside. We rode past fields full of cows and horses and chickens scattered about yards clucking and scratching.

Bits and pieces of abandoned farm machinery littered uncut fields and my grandma quickly pointed out that in the days of her youth, her father would plow his fields using only a wooden plow and his two huge draft horses. I remember thinking of the picture that hung on my grandma's dresser mirror of my great-grandpa Julius. Clad in denim overalls, he stood near one of those horses holding its head and smiling gently.

As we rode she told us of the days when she and her sisters only had two dresses, one for "outings," such as school or church and one for playtime and doing chores about the farm. Her parents were a hardy folk who lived off the land using all of its resources for farming and raising livestock. They made little profit from their crops and herds and with 10 children to care for, fancy clothing was not a priority.

We passed by a small red-bricked building that my grandma said was once used as a school. It was in this one room school house that she and all her brothers and sisters attended at the same time, sharing books, paper and desks. My grandma and her siblings referred to this as "in time of books."

As we reached Panther Creek, nine weary travelers hiked down a tree lined slope and stopped at the edge of a dusty, dry creek bed.

Grandma stood at the top of the slope near their truck with her hands on her hips. Sighing, she reached into the back and pulled out a shovel and a bucket of drinking glasses. She then began to walk along the edge of the creek bed telling everyone to look for a red rag tied to a tree limb.

No one understood what was going on. But we followed her anyway, a small confused clan traveling along a thirsty creek bed. We stepped around scattered pools of stagnant water, all that had survived the harsh summer heat.

When we spotted the tattered red rag hanging from the branch of a very sickly oak tree my grandma gathered us around in a tight circle and explained.

Every year when winter faded and the first blossoms of springtime reached for the sun, she and her siblings cleared away trees and leaves from the creek bed and searched for the underground spring that fed it. Once it was found, they dug it up so that the waters could flow freely and her family could use it once again for their farm. It soon became a tradition in her family and was done every year.

After her parents passed away and her brothers and sisters went their separate ways that tradition was broken and Panther Creek suffered a devastating fate. The people living in the family farmhouse now didn't need the creek for survival and the natural spring became clogged. The creek dried up. We were here to begin the tradition again; on a quest to save Panther Creek.

Grandma unearthed the soil around the dying oak tree. The tattered red rag hung limply from its branch. She piled mounds of dirt to form a tunnel down the bank into the creek's bed.

The others pulled dead leaves and trees from the ground, clearing a pathway. I stayed with Grandma to watch her dig and waited for the water to gush from the hole.

I was the first to feel its coolness on my legs. I yanked off my shoes and socks and thrust my feet into it, screaming at its iciness. It was thunderous as it washed down the bank making the dry creek bed now a babbling brook. I watched as it engulfed the stagnant pools of muck and gave new life to the dying minnows and tadpoles that swam there.

My grandma smiled and then reached for one of the drinking glasses. It was one of my favorites a shiny pink metal tumbler. As she dipped it into the cold spring water it glistened in the bright sun. I drank down the icy goodness; its wonderful taste rolling down my throat. She filled every glass and passed one to each of us. She had a gleam in her eye and I thought I saw a glimpse of the little girl she once had been.

It was in that moment that I understood why it was so important for Grandma to carry on this tradition. I looked around at my family sitting on the bank with their feet in the cool waters, drinking from metal glasses and laughing. It was like a Norman Rockwell picture.

Grandma stared at her old home across the road from the creek. I imagined her as a child carrying a pail of fresh milk to the creek to sit in the cold water. Through her eyes I saw her brothers and sisters playing around her and my great -grandpa hooking his horses to the plow in the field. I saw that great white house sitting high in the fields and the sun setting behind it. I smelled the sweet hay and horses and I heard Panther Creek murmur as it rolled gently past the road.

My grandmother goes back to Panther Creek every year and digs up the spring, and each time a new family member earns the chance to take part in this amazing tradition. A family ritual that inspires love and respect for the earth-a tradition that began with one grandma's memories of her life along the banks of one very special creek.

Panther Creek is located near Marble Hill.