Grandma's Mailbox
GRANDMA'S MAILBOX I remember the trip to Grandma Wilson's mailbox as clearly as if it were yesterday instead of roughly 65 years ago. For some reason, I always remember it in the heat of summer. I guess this is because that's when we were there most often. The image I conjure is of the skinny little Keith, shirtless, often shoeless, some other cousin, or more, dressed as frugally as I was opening the rusty front gate and walking down that dusty old road, past the cabin, around the curve to the beckoning, cool waters of the creek. We watched the path the whole way intent on saving the soles of our feet from the rocky protuberances that, once met, resulted in painful yet comical one-footed jigs until the pain subsided. I looked forward to crossing the creek, enraptured by the cacophony of courting frogs and birds and the gurgling of the gentle flow of Reece's Creek over the rocks and gravel of the stream bed. I always paused to stare in hopes of seeing some fishy d...