Shootin' it Straight - The Creek

European settlers moved into Kentucky in the mid-1700s and never looked back. Harrod’s Town is credited as the first town of record. Some areas never made it to the status of city, town, or even neighborhood. We just have a name that, if you know, you know. Moore’s Creek is such a place. On the map, it’s just a collection of farmland and rural, modest homes. The creek itself is little more than a minnow trap. There isn’t a sign designating it, nor an exit in sight. On the spot, I’m uncertain if I could name a notable local sports figure from the area. Even the man who sits atop a fortune doesn’t stand out. The land isn’t known for any dominant persona like the bourbon counties of central Kentucky. Individually, the locals lack a standout persona to tout as the face of the land. Together it's all together something unto itself. 

Moore’s Creek is near and dear to me. The land is one of the few steady constants in a world gone mad. Land moves slow here, if at all. Farms are passed down. Land is rarely carved up, and when it is, it’s in small doses, usually when a child places a house on the back forty of the family farm. New homes are built and old ones maintained until it’s no longer practical, giving the land back to where it came from and starting the cycle over. Folks have been plowing the same dirt with the same International since I’ve been alive. The people are an eclectic group who band together like nothing I’ve known. Strangers are viewed with a wary eye. Neighboring properties look out for one another in life and death. The scattered people down the snaking road may not speak more than a few times per year, but any given tragedy will have them pouring out. Depending on the need, they will show up with Stihl 261s or banana pudding. Fences and trespassing signs are rarely needed due to a healthy amount of respect, or fear.

The entirety of this area is only a few miles, but it’s a whole different place. I stood recently in a small circle of the pillars of The Creek and found myself a little saddened. As we buried one of the stalwarts of the neighborhood, I noticed that many of us were closer to the end than the beginning of the run. Long live this way of life and those who preserve the very fabric it’s cut from. The Creek is a time capsule from another era, and I’m forever grateful to have grown up immersed in it.