Is It Creek or Is It Crick?

Thanks to my friend Stephanie, the majority of this blog is going to be one thing: a poem. Folks, I love Idaho, but I'm originally from Montana. I have also lived in Virginia. In both places I was too young to pay much attention to how the locals talked. Most of my manner of speaking, including the words I use, came from my own family. My father was basically an eight year college student by the time I was born. He was forty-five years old and set in his ways. He was also set in the way he spoke, and for the most part it was in very correct, although not "stilted," English. Perhaps it is for that reason that when little Steph asked me if I was a "real Idaho boy," the test consisting of whether I pronounce a stream of water "creek" or "crick," I was able to firmly say, "CREEK!!!!!"

When I first met my wife in 1986 we went for an 18 mile hike with my dogs. Of course, it was only supposed to be an 8 mile walk, before I got lost. The fact that she never complained was the biggest reason we kept dating. I figured if she was tougher than I was she was definitely one to hang on to. That fact has been proven time and again throughout our lives. Unfortunately, we started on slightly rocky ground at the beginning of our hike when Debbie made the mistake of mentioning the "crick" we were walking past. I started into a teasing stretch that went on and on, and eventually led to the poem that follows. After I read this poem to Debbie, she stopped being an Idaho girl, at least in the sense of passing Stephanie's test. I have never once heard her say crick again. See? Some folks really can learn new things at the advanced age of 22!

So, with no further ado, here is the poem inspired by my Debbie and thrown into this blog because of Stephanie's "Idaho test." I hope you enjoy.

Down on the Crick

There’s a little word I’ve heard around that needs an explanation;
I have a feeling there’s no place for it in grand oration.
Now listen to me very close and see if you agree;
By the way it’s spelled, it’s not quite said the way it ought to be.
If you’ll sit there for a while, I’ll teach to you a lesson;
And if you’re guilty of this crime, I hope you’ll be confessin’:
The simple word I’m speaking of I think is pronounced crick;
But it’s not spelled that way, and I’d like to know the trick.
This word should have a long E sound, like bee or tree or beagle;
Can pronouncing such a word as "crick" somehow be illegal?
I guess if it’s tradition, to call a "creek" a "crick,"
I’ll go become a vagabond, living on Pike’s Pick.
Or I’ll become a shipherder, herding ship along the hill;
Or sick my fortune in the mines, like a wick man never will.
And if someday I’m lucky, a pretty girl I’ll mit,
And she’ll fold up my underwear so very nice and nit.
And we’ll buy us a great big farm, if they’ll give us a good dill;
Then I’ll have all I ever want without the need to still.
I’ll plant my whit out in the field, and what I sow I’ll rip;
So I can go and buy another couple thousand ship.
We’ll take those ship, so soft and fat, and also very mick,
And shave the wool right off their backs, forgetting how they rick.
’Cause smell don’t bother me at all, when my fortune I am sicking;
I’ll have chickens with their bicks plumb full, and my luck will still be picking.
My best friend’s named Ezekial, but we just call him Zick;
The other day I caught him in the john, about to take a lick.
I was so embarrassed, I ran right to my bed,
I jumped right in and pulled the dirty shi— whoops! blankets over my head.
And this morning I was standing here, frying some eggs in griss,
When my wife comes in, tired of fighting, wanting to make pi— uh, make a truce.
Then we decided to shear our ship, and go into town with their fliss,
And sell it off, then go to the bank, so we could pay our liss.
Well, there’s not much more to say I s’pose, you’ve got my drift by now;
I nid to get back to the barn and milk that bawling cow.
Now go and think on this a mite—take six days, or a wick—
Then tell me how you say it—is it creek or is it crick?

—Kirby Jonas June 1, 1995