This summer the boys have been schooled in the art of fishing. Aaron’s once-in-a-lifetime best friend, John, somehow got the two younger boys hooked, and off they went. Often, I go along: as a chaperone, not a fisherman.
On this day, I took them to Oregon, a thirty-five minute drive from the farm, in pursuit of a new place to fish. After walking for a while, navigating some ledges, and tying bait on Moses’ fishing line, I stopped to sit on a bench near the river. The bench bore an engraved tag which read something like, “In memory of Reed…, who so loved this river.”
I can see why Reed loved the river. Looking out from where I sit for this tiny moment in time, I am transfixed by the beauty of the rushing water, cascading over the dam and dancing, white and rhythmic, as it travels on.
A shriek signifying that someone must be near death startles me back. It’s the little guy. By the time I get to him, he isn’t sure anymore what had made him mad. He makes another cast.
I look at Aaron and John. John is head-and-shoulders taller than Aaron though nearly a year younger. We met John’s family when their teenage cows escaped and walked along the country road to hide out in our trees. In some ways, John has been Aaron’s savior, and also mine. These boys stood together through a lot of hard things. Aaron learned what it was like for someone to believe in him. I know that this has all been orchestrated by something far bigger, but I will always be grateful for the cows.
During this calendar year we have traveled long and far, taking road trips to New York, to see Niagara Falls; to Colorado, to see the mountains; and to Duluth, to take Aaron to his adventure in the Boundary Waters.
Time was passing. We wanted our boys to have some chances. If we waited until the days were easier or until the behaviors settled, we might not be here any longer. So we packed the car and drove off.
We have seen more of this magnificent country than we ever thought we would. There were struggles along the road—many of them. There were brawls and there were tears. Somehow, though, it’s much easier to be the target of someone’s wrath with a majestic backdrop of snow-covered mountains. It’s more pleasant to hold a child through a frenzied tantrum in the Art Park, surrounded by mobiles of jewel-toned glass and the music of rushing water.
There’s not much time left to fish—not this summer, anyway. Aaron and John will begin this year at different high schools. They will have different chances, different rhythms, and, likely different friends. They want to be farmers one day, sharing land when they are grown men. I’m sure they will build a little house for Moses, too.
This year has been one of blindsiding fear, grace, acceptance, and joyful celebration. I suppose, though, that’s how they always are. I would take the road trip, over and again. I would walk this path. I hope the cows would, too.
I’m with Reed about the river.
And I’m not really afraid of dying. I’m just afraid of not living anymore. XO
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