Crooked Creek
Crooked Creek Bayou cut through the middle of our land. Sometimes lazy, sometimes brisk, it curved just down the road from our farmhouse. Shortly after turning eleven in July, dressed in denim overalls, blacktop tennis shoes and sporting a burr haircut, I scoured the creek-bank for a nice frog. I found a fat one, chased him through some bushes as he croaked, and snagged him. I climbed back to the road just in time to see a black Lincoln force the town Sheriff's police car from the pavement,...