I have a lot of writing to post that is residing in my notebook. Since the cancer I have many ups and downs and writing has been a saving grace. I realized recently that quite possibly my life here on earth is short. My mom and her mother died when they were 67. That time is sneaking up on me and I want to share what has been a childhood of great memories and a life of ups and downs. My life is marked with great sorrows as well.
The following writings are a series of writing called Writing Towards Home. I began these writings many years ago as an exercise for a class I was taking on poetry, with my favorite poet/teacher, Georgia Heard.
These are rough drafts and always in the process of revision and editing.
Home is
The Brook
Eagleville, Ct.
Home is the playground provided by
the natural brook running through our
property. It is the green/gray moss that pads my bare
feet as I squat and
watch for speckled native brook trout
about to tug on my line. Other times it
is the coolness of the cold water
spinning like a whirlpool wrapping itself
around my ankles as I bend to catch a fish by
its hind legs. It’s about
damming it up and letting the water
rise into a pool deep enough to dunk
my long curly hair or float aimlessly
on an inner tube kicking my feet and
sliding my fingers through the
water. On hot humid days we shared our
“spa” with our friends and neighbors. Our imaginations run wild with ideas for a
water game to keep us cool and entertained.
In early spring ice
clung to the edges of the brook like fragile brittle glass sitting on the edge
of the shelf. The water was too cold
for bare feet but just right for kid sized waders . April signaled my brother and I to grab our
fishing poles and a can of worms and stand in the brook with hopes of catching
sweet pink trout that we would gut, roll in cornbread, and fry in a cast iron
skillet for dinner. Later in the spring
my dad would begin his ritual of planting a vegetable garden. My brother and I dammed the brook close to
the garden and waited for the yearly spawning of suckers coming up stream. We’d capture them in our nets and use them as
fertilizer for the corn and pumpkins growing in the garden.
The brook was where my
first wildflower lessons with my dad began.
In the early spring yellow trout lilies bloomed along the banks of the
brook. Among the decaying tree branches
and leaves jack-in-the-pulpits, scarlet trillium, blood roots, and lady
slippers graced and framed the swollen banks of the brook. Bright green skunk cabbage illuminated the
stark brown ground beneath our feet.
The beauty of the colorful flowers and the cool, crisp, clean water seemed
to be in direct contrast to the boundaries of the woodlands.
The brook was also a
home to many unusual “pets”. Endless
water striders gliding over the water’s surface, crayfish lying beneath
slippery rocks, and an occasional water snake sneaking around the water’s
edge. By far my favorites were the frogs
and pollywogs that made our brook their home.
Mr. Croaker, my very large bullfrog, was
a playmate and confident until a large rain storm carried him away.
The brook has been home - place of wonder, imagination, play,
and life lessons for all seasons. It has become part of me.
