Admission Essay

A creek is no place for shoes. I think it's unreasonable to ask such children to keep their shoes on in such a place. My bare feet were always

covered with calluses from walking down the rough pavement of Pine Street and around the corner, past the tall oaks, but not as far as the

Lindsay's squeaky old swing-set. It was hard to see from the road, and as far as I could tell, nobody ever went there, except for me. Large

pines nearby stood tall and erect, looking down at the ripples and currents that nudged each other about playfully, like children in the back

seat of a car on a long drive. Stones and pebbles lined the shallow bottom and allowed the water to glide in creative patterns over their

smooth surfaces. Larger, moss covered rocks dotted the back and provided ideal spots for a child to sit around watch and wonder. The

creek taught me things; it was my mentor. Once I discovered tadpoles in several of the many eddies and stagnant pools that lined the small

rivulet. A cupped hand and a cleaned-out mayonnaise jar aided me in clumsily scooped up some of the more slothful individuals. With

muddy hands and knees, I set them on the kitchen table and watched them on a daily basis as they developed into tiny frogs. I was

fascinated by what was taking place before my eyes, but new questions constantly puzzled me. Dad was usually responsible for assuaging

these curiosities. He told me about different kinds of metamorphosis and how other creatures lived in the water that I couldn't see without a

fancy magnifying glass. By the creek, my mind was free to wonder. I remember sitting on a mossy rock and watching birds; I used to

pretend I was one. As my body lay still, my imagination would take flight. High above, looking down on this stream from the pale blue

heavens, the wind whistled over my face and the sun warmed my body. When my eyes flickered open, it was