We were
standing on the bank of the river as it turned the bend heading to join other
bodies of water. It cast twinkles of light out toward a future that had no
boundaries, or no obstacles. In fact, there was nothing in that world but light,
love and beauty. “Remember those days, daddy?”
I was so
absorbed in my memories, I was quite shocked to turn around and realize the
person I was standing with and talking to wasn’t there with me, at least not
physically. While I stood watching the river, I realized I had been taken back in time once again, nearly fifty years. “Oh,
where had time gone, and so quickly,” I asked myself. My mind’s eye slipped
back again to those days.
Standing there,
so close to my childhood, it seemed nothing had changed. I could still see an
old, rusty swing, a picnic table that needed paint, and I heard the voices of
small children clothed in shirts and dresses made from flour sacks, the way
they did in the simple easy times of life. My imagination continued on across
the ripples of the river until it joined with other memories so consuming, it
was as if I were still there; playing on the landing myself; those many years
ago.
The sun was
warm on my back and arms as I sat down on a patch of dusty ground. As I laid my head back and looked up toward
the sky, I could hear the light wind ruffling through the needles of the tall
pines and I could see them sway high above me. I watched the white, fluffy
clouds drifting by in a sunny sky.
Turning my
head toward the now empty and neglected houses, I wondered where the little
kids who had lived on the landing had gone, where the years had taken them.
Were they kind years filled with pleasant memories?
As I cast
one last look across the river, to the other side, I realized, for the first time ever, this was the same river that flowed past my grandparents home, across the
highway and hidden by thick, swampy underbrush.
On this day,
of lone reflection, I packed up my picnic lunch and headed back. I knew I would
pass the home of my dad’s aunt and her family. They lived only a short walk
from the landing, under a canopy of trees and flowers of all sorts. One of her
son’s was close to my age and we had spent many hours at their house, playing
beneath the trees. One of our favorite pastimes was learning to both stand on a
large oil drum and walk it down the gravel road. There were many hours of laughter,
shouts, and a few skinned knees until we finally could roll up and down the
road instead of walking like most people did. We also spent many afternoons
sitting in the huge tree that shaded the house from the summer sun in late
afternoon. I walked up
the drive, but didn’t sit and reflect long, since the laughter and warmth of
those days was no longer there.
I knew if I
walked back the way I had come on the way to the landing, I would find the Old
Methodist church and the cemetery beside it sitting on the corner of the gravel
road and main highway. Lots of fun and games of tag were played there during
Sunday pot luck dinners. A nagging thought tried to push in, telling me that it
was not a proper place for cousins to run and play chase between the head
stones and the memories of those long departed. I smiled and said out loud,
“yes, it was the perfect place to play”, and when we were hot and played out,
we would fall on the soft green grass and drink from the old Artesian well
right there in the center of the cemetery.
The old post
office would be up the main road a mile or two waiting, waiting for friends and
neighbors to stop in for a friendly chat and to pick up their mail. I suddenly
could feel and smell the cool, dark interior of the country post office. I
could even almost hear some of the neighbors who would gather there. Their names, so much a part of south Louisiana
culture, and their accents mingled in my mind. It was a place not only to
receive letters and cards, but to socialize and enjoy life in their simple
country way.
It’s
difficult to walk down memory lane, remembering all those times. With each
memory comes another, all connected and all still so much alive in my heart and
mind. Feeling all the presence of the families who lived in this quiet, simple little
town, a lifetime ago; I let myself be taken back.
As I'm standing on the ditch bank filled with large vines, I’m transported to “other lands”.
The land of Cleopatra on the edge of the Nile, armies who overtook giants and warriors,
pirates and ships that sailed on the open seas, places we would never go, or
see, except on the ditch bank in my grandparent’s pasture. That reality didn’t
matter to us back then, only the experiences of the simple games and the dreams
of childhood. Nor did the dirt and dust we seemed to be covered in all the time.
Walking back
from the ditch bank, through the pastures toward the road, passing the clothes
line full of dark work shirts and overalls, there was a single strand of wire
wrapped around white conductors. They were nailed to a post every few feet. I
remember, because I once touched a wire and felt the dull, painful jolt of the
“electric fence”. My dad, a spoiler, though not a coddler, simply told me I
needed to watch out, the country was much different than the city and not as
“tame and safe”.
It seems
these memories come more often lately, now that I am the age my grandparents
were then, but they are more beautiful and meaningful than when I first lived them,
those many years ago.
Often times
I would love to share the actual experiences with my own children and
grandchildren, but then they would not see the beauty and feel the
freedom I knew in my childhood.
