The River

Fifty years ago my parents introduced me to the river. It was the year my youngest brother was born.

We returned to the river as a family every summer thereafter (except for one year when a hurricane blew away our time and opportunity with the trees at our house and the windows in my father's office).

There were years we shared the week with the family of my mother's best friend. We built dams and ran the rapids, swung on rope swings and jumped off the cliff.

The river

As our family grew, new members were introduced to the river and our traditions...miniature golf, paddle boats, canoeing, and kayaking.

DH arrived in 1980 or 1981 (he says '81). And the children have known this river for their whole lives...they have loved her from the moment they dipped their toes in her frigid water.


We have braved flood and drought to spend at least a few nights and days here - some travel across the country so we can all be here together - playing games, reading, drinking, swimming, running the rapids, and resting and renewing ourselves.

Dominoes - losing hand

This past weekend my walks were along roads I have walked these many years with family and friends. I have walked them alone, immersed in teenage angst. I have walked them while holding the tiny hands of my children and my nieces and nephews. I have walked them holding hands with my mother and father.

So many memories swirled around in my head as I walked around the pond, up and down the hill, and along the river bank.

Walking up the hill

Paths along the river

Cypress at the pond

more river

looking toward the cliff

The cicadas always sing as we arrive; frogs along the pond join in as the sun goes down; the fire flies silently dance at dusk amidst the trees along the river.

I may post again of birds and flowers, but this post is of crumbling roads and dirt paths and the rushing/gurgling/freezing waterway, changed, yet unchanged.