The Woods of Horney Creek

I was born in Indiana. Learning as a tadpole that my kin carved their place in Hoosier history living in log cabins, surrounded by wild Indians, cautiously answering knocks on their door with a “Who’s thar?” The earth I first walked wasn’t filled with peaks and valleys. The land was flatter than a pancake. Land where a person could watch their dog run away for six miles. Silos were my mountains. Weren’t no grizzlies, wolves, or moose. Wild animals in my neck of the woods were pissed-off bulls, giant sows, deranged roosters, and goofy coon dogs, usually named Lila or Buddy. We had no raging rivers, canyons, or natural wonders like Half Dome and Old Faithful. Only cornfields.

Back then, as a kid growing up, there were no computers, fancy flat screen color TV’s, or video games keeping a youngster inside. If a boy was inside, he was either sick, doing homework, eating, or sleeping.  Well, maybe for another reason. Now and then I’d hear the words “You’re grounded!” Hated hearing that. Kept me from being outside. From being in the woods. Several hundred acres of woods, right smack dab behind our house. With trees and critters and a creek named Horney. A good Indiana creek. Sized perfect for an exploring kid. Thirty feet at its widest and a running leap at its narrowest.

Never did think nothing dirty-minded about the creek’s name, but always did wonder if there was another reason why it was called Horney, other than for Indians supposedly finding deer antlers along its banks. Maybe its waters had sexual powers, like certain pills for men. Imagine this teepee scene: Thrusting Flower, a beautiful Indian maiden, hovering over her brave, Heap-O-Nuts, as he lies on a buffalo hide. Him waving his arms, pleading, “No sock-it-to-me tonight. Heap wore out. Chipped much chert today.” She grabs his hair, forces his mouth open, pours Horney water down his throat, and says with a smile, “Now we get something straight between us.” Regardless of how the name came about, I do know that in all the years of prowling Horney’s banks, not once did I find any antlers laying around. And, whenever I drank Horney water, I didn’t get amorous thoughts, just the puking shits.

A few years ago, I visited Horney Crick. Hadn’t been there in forty years. Mom and Dad are gone. Looking down now from Heaven. The old home place stands, but in it a new family. Surprisingly, the woods were still there. I had imagined them overcome by development. The creek was flowing, clean and sparkling, like the old days. I wandered for a bit, retracing the footsteps of my youth. I waded the creek, bending down now and then, picking up a crawdad. The water cold and soothing. Dozens of long-gone forts whispered, but their locations eluded me. Taking out my flint and steel, I made a small fire. The smoke’s smell instantly reminding me of the many fires as a youth, whether for wiener roasts or keeping warm while playing hockey. I closed my eyes, letting the wilderness lessons of childhood invade my adult knowledge.   

The woods of Horney Creek. My favorite classroom growing up. A classroom where the teacher never said a word. And, not once did I get yelled at for ever being late.