Creekbottom Home




Mack Vann

A Sample of Story

Remember when you were younger? You had your hidey holes. Places you could go perhaps to see, perhaps to hear, perhaps to simply be alone. I remember.

Across the road and hidden in trees, away from the hustle and bustle of years gone by, lay Papa’s Sinkhole, big around as a two story house and about as deep. I was 5 years old when I discovered PaPa’s sinkhole.

As I held on to honeysuckle and climbed my way down to the sinkhole’s floor, sound of the outside world would fade away. Traffic on Gurley Pike, the laughter of children down the road, even the songs of the birds in the woods around PaPa’s sinkhole would quieten as I lowered myself carefully down to the bottom. Halfway down, a new sound would start, a sound of water coming from one place, running a few feet, then ducking into another as if daylight were hurting its eyes. Mystery of mysteries!

The air changed, too. At the top, the air was warm, mixed with honeysuckle, woodland briars, the forest floor, and scent of trees and leaves. Clasping roots to ease my way, the perfume of honeysuckle was overpowering till halfway down where lack of sunlight made vines to thin and disappear.

There, a little more than halfway, nothing remained except decaying logs—remnants of trees fallen years ago.

Air coming from the floor of PaPa’s sinkhole was fresh and cool like air that’s washed and stored in limestone caverns then mixed with fragrance of blossoms and hint of stone and clay.

Slick and wet, the smooth clay floor and rounded limestone boulders made PaPa’s sinkhole a place apart. The floor and stones lay barren, silent, still—unyielding to all except the water’s carving.

My goal was to reach the core, the source and center of it all, the sinkhole’s floor for there the sound of water was eternal—never ending, never stopping, forever going to parts unknown.

It was a place to go and listen.

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The Time Is Right for Story

Mack Vann