The ledge is over grown now. There are four to five rocks that I'm sure used to be one thousands of years ago but time and climate and other sources divided them. They lay thick and solid almost touching but never moving...not in my life time.
Today I wanted to climb and touch them but along with briers, honeysuckle and Virginia Creeper there was also a fine crop of Poison Ivy so I didn't. I stood at creek level and remembered.
I remembered the ongoing adventures my dad and all the grandchildren had here. One rock sounds hollow when tapped with a hammer or a rock. This sound was the beginning of The Treasure Hunt.
It was a sight to see...Dad leading a row of stair step grand children, each carrying their tool of choice, through the garden and down the bank to endless adventures.
The cracks around the hollow rock, filled with nature's debris, were emptied with sand shovels, picks, tiny hands and patience. Much laughter was always heard and many stories told with no limits to their imagination regarding what they might find.
When they grew tired Dad and the ducklings shouldered their tools and returned home to feed and rest.
The bottom edge was never reached but the digging never stopped. A day at the farm usually meant a treasure hunt with Grandpa Pete. The digging crew grew smaller but they now had their own stories to add.
The children grew older and went their own way.
One day I came to visit and Dad was digging alone remembering. The grandchildren will never forget.
