Don’t know about you, but for me it’s been a while since agonizing over how to hold a girl’s hand. It’s been even longer since I took a marble and held it up against the sky.

It’s been forever since gathering eggs at Grandmother’s in New Hope, Alabama, and in the evening used corncobs to bedevil those very same chickens trying to roost in Grandmother Vann’s cedar trees.

I remember the creek bottoms and beech-covered hillsides of Limestone County, swamp rabbits, squirrels, and foxes. Fondly, I think of bird dogs and buddies and every friend with whom I’ve shared God’s great outdoors. I remember, too, the nights alone I’d spend frog hunting while floating and wading down Limestone Creek.

I remember working on my father’s farm, the people I met and grew to love and sweethearts? Don’t get me started.

I remember the heart-pounding, lightning flashing storms of summer, the winter quiet of snow.

Most of all, I remember love, love of family, love of friends, love of One unseen, yet always near.

I’ve written Creek Bottom Home believing there is much we hold in common, much we see the same. I trust your reading Creek Bottom Home will do for you what writing Creek Bottom Home has done for me; and in remembering those special people, those special places, those special moments of your own, you will remember with love and kindness; you will remember with a smile.

To know more about Creek Bottom Home and Mack Vann click here.