An Old Pair of Sneakers
An Old Pair of Sneakers
There are many different kinds of memories. Some you can almost smell as you close your eyes and breathe deeply, taking in the scent of fulfillment, of warmth, of happy-ever-after. Some come with a flavor all their own, sweet like smiles, savory like hope on a day filled with sunshine. And some you can feel right through you, filling your soul with deep contentment.
Whenever I am asked about a memory from my childhood, the same one comes quickly to my mind. I am with my sister Julie and my dad. We are splashing in a shallow creek, climbing over rocks and fallen trees, soaking our old sneakers in the puddles. We are creek walking.
Each summer as we packed our bags for family camp, we had our old creek-walking shoes at the top of our list of what we needed to bring. Spending an afternoon just walking in a shallow creek could be called “cheap entertainment” by some, but it was the highlight of the week for Julie and me.
When I close my eyes I smell the trees standing tall above us as we tread the creek’s path. I see the little fish darting around our feet, too quick for our small hands to catch. I feel the warmth of the sunshine as it breaks through the barrier of the branches to rest upon our faces; the coolness of the water as it soaks our shoes and sends muddy splatters all around.
I don’t remember what we talked about, or how many times we slipped and ended up giggling all soaking wet. I don’t remember how many hours we spent in that little creek. But it certainly left an impression on me. 
Perhaps it wasn’t just the act of walking in the creek, or the old sneakers, or the little fishes escaping my grasp. Perhaps it wasn’t just standing tall on slippery rocks or climbing over trees laying across our path. Perhaps it is the memory of my dad investing in my sister and me, letting us know we were important enough to spend the afternoon with, simply walking a creek in an old pair of sneakers.
