When I lived in upstate New York, I anticipated my yearly Thanksgiving ritual - a walk along a half-mile creek that wound through the woods, across a meadow, and finally beside a pasture before reaching the backyard of our home. Living now in South Carolina, I follow the path only in my memories; and with each Thanksgiving, I give thanks to God for that experience

My yearly walk guided me along the familiar stream that I knew as the "crick" when I was a boy. Although I am careful to call them creeks now, it really doesn't matter. They all sing, and their songs are therapy for the spirit and the soul.

It was a joy to walk along the bank of our creek each year and listen to the music of the bubbling waters. I would see the pollywogs and frogs, the tadpoles and crayfish. On exceptionally warm Thanksgiving days, I could stick my feet in the water to let the minnows tickle my toes.

Not far from the house, the creek fell into two small waterfalls. How I loved the music of water pouring over the falls and curling around the stones. Here were the oldest musical instruments in the world. The oldest orchestras playing symphonies. God raised His baton, and the music began.

How often in the waters I have heard the music of the composers. At times, I would think of Vivaldi's "Four Seasons." On other days. I would dream of Debussy's "Claire de Lune" or "Afternoon of a Fawn," soothing as a day in glorious autumn. I could imagine I was hearing Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto. like the drenching rains that nourish the earth.

I am now too far away and no longer hear the creek's glorious music on Thanksgiving Day. Although the songs have ended, the melody still lingers on in the memory; and I will forever be thankful