I don't remember the day I got healthy.

I just remember the day nobody treated me like I was sick anymore.

Mom quit worrying every time I walked out the door.

Dad started handing me chores again.

And somehow...

that felt like freedom.

Life had become wonderfully ordinary again.

Dad believed work came before play.

Actually...

Dad believed everybody should work before they played.

So before I ever disappeared toward Willow Creek, there was always work waiting for me.

Dad's garden wasn't a hobby.

It was a second job.

Maybe a third.

At least it felt that way to me.

Some days I was convinced it covered half the county.

The yard needed mowing.

Tomatoes needed picking.

Apples and pears needed gathering.

Corn had to be harvested.

Green beans didn't pick themselves.

There was always something.

And then...

there was the okra.

Every garden has a villain.

In Dad's garden...

it was that itchy shit.

Truth be told...

I wasn't exactly enthusiastic about all those chores.

Given the choice between pulling weeds or heading toward Willow Creek…

Willow Creek won every single time.

I wasn't lazy exactly.

I was just highly motivated to do absolutely anything that wasn't gardening.

I was absolutely certain I could get away with doing just enough work to satisfy Dad...

and disappear before he noticed the rest wasn't finished.

Dad would walk through the garden...

stop...

look around...

and somehow find the one row I'd skipped.

Or the basket that wasn't quite full.

Or the weeds I was hoping he'd somehow overlook.

Never try to fool Big Ab.

It never worked.

I, on the other hand...

never stopped trying.

Dad knew that.

He also knew I occasionally needed a little... motivation.

Willow branches had other uses besides looking pretty.

I'll just leave it at that.

Truth is...

I deserved most of the motivation I received.

Probably all of it...

but let's not get carried away.

Dad's garden always produced more than we could possibly eat.

Especially tomatoes.

So we'd load them into the car and sell them by the side of the road.

There were always more.

Always.

Then we'd fill more boxes and deliver vegetables to neighbors.

If someone was having a hard time, Dad quietly made sure they had fresh produce too.

Helping people wasn't something he talked about.

It was simply what we did.

I honestly thought everybody did that.

Finally, after the mower was put away, the baskets were empty, and the chores were finished, Dad would grin and say,

"Go on, Billy Boy... go to Willow Creek... and try not to break anything this time."

He wasn't kidding.

I honestly don't remember ever being completely healed.

It seemed like I always had something wrapped in a cast... stitched back together... or taped up.

An arm. A wrist. An elbow. An ankle. A knee.

If there was a creative way to get hurt...

I usually found it.

The doctors kept me on penicillin shots every twenty-eight days for three years after I got "healthy."

Whether those shots had anything to do with it or not...

I blamed them anyway.

Experience is a wonderful teacher.

I've never claimed to be all that bright.

I loved sports.

Sports...

didn't always return the favor.

Years later, one football coach looked at me, smiled, and said,

"Billy... you've got a Division I arm... an NFL mind... and a body designed for a rehab unit."

He wasn't wrong.

The minute Dad gave me permission...

I was gone.

The walk to Willow Creek couldn't have taken more than a few minutes.

To us...

it felt like we were leaving the real world behind.

The smell of the creek meant we'd finally made it.

Every step carried us farther away from chores...

and closer to adventure.

A gang of us from the neighborhood—boys and girls—usually ended up there.

Nobody carried a phone.

Nobody wore a watch.

Nobody cared what time it was.

We just had to be home by dark.

Willow Creek had all afternoon.

One of our favorite things to do was catch crawdads.

If you've never caught one, there's a trick to it.

You sneak up behind them and grab them just behind those claws.

Otherwise...

they'll introduce you to those two front claws.

Usually the hard way.

Those little suckers could pinch the hell out of you if you caught them wrong.

Apparently...

I needed more than one demonstration.

Experience is a wonderful teacher.

I've never claimed to be all that bright.

The girls caught crawdads too.

They were usually smarter about it than we were.

Mostly they stood there laughing while one of us boys did something spectacularly stupid.

Which, in fairness...

was usually justified.

Then they'd show us what we'd done wrong.

We'd throw the crawdad back into the creek...

and immediately start trying to catch another one.

When the sun finally disappeared behind the trees, we'd wander home for supper.

My brother was nine years older than I was.

Which automatically made him one of the coolest people I'd ever met.

If he liked something...

I figured it had to be pretty cool.

By then he and his friends had discovered folk music.

Some nights, after everyone thought I was asleep, I'd quietly slip out of bed and hide in the hall closet.

Just close enough to listen.

Just far enough away that nobody knew I was there.

I'd sit perfectly still.

They'd laugh.

Tell stories.

Tune their guitars.

Then someone would count off a song.

The room got quiet.

The Mamas & the Papas.

Simon & Garfunkel.

Peter, Paul and Mary.

I didn't know one chord from another.

I couldn't have told you what key they were playing in.

I had no idea what made those songs so different.

I only knew I wanted to hear one more.

Night after night I'd sit there in the shadows, hoping no one noticed I was there.

Looking back...

I thought I was sneaking downstairs to hear music.

I had no idea...

I was listening to my future.