Here I sit in front of the computer trying to think, seems my mind is on the brink. After three years of practicing you think it would be easy, wouldn't you. In the course of the day possibly a hundred different ideas pop into my mind. When it's time to unleash that stream of conscious my friend speaks of, no spirit is willing to work with me. Apparently the spirit writers union wanna nothing to do with me . . . imagine that! All of us are unique individuals and that, we must let out. That's why so many people are on them dastardly mood enhancing, destroying, suicidal meds.
I imagine myself floating effortlessly down a river in July on a 85 degree day. The water is at it's lowest depth of the year. I place my small boat in a river to nowhere. The stream gently curves through farmland, as far away as one can get from the pollution of human development. Not easy in this day and age. Pristine farmland, far away from the hustle and bustle, and all the turmoil that every day people must dwell in. I glide down this river during the summertime for over forty years. An annual outing that began as a salute to my grandpa. I would listen to stories told of all the fishing expeditions that he and his grandpa experienced in a long lost time. The stories thrilled me as a child. The first July after his death, I took his old boat, that had not felt moisture except rainwater from being turned upside down in many years. I ask my dog Blue "you wanna take a ride?" She understood wanna, and ride. She eagerly accepts any ride, any time in my truck. Trucks and dogs go together like a hot dog, and a bun. This time while I unload grandpa's old boat into the river she was most curious, watching keenly, curious at my every move. Her ears perk up at the cooler with food, can't fool her none when it comes to food.
The first year was exhilarating, in a scary sort of way. I practiced my rowing technique at a friends lake for a couple months. This was my maiden voyage of the grandpa's boat. After about an hour I settle down into the easy drifting river. Blue was watching it all, smells and sounds, and critters, she never seen afore. I enjoyed watching her more than the ever changing, yet same scenery.
How can I explain the simple simplicity of nature, woods, cornfields, deer, raccoons, turtles, fish a jumping. From time to time we would sit foot on a sandbar, stretching our legs. Imagination runneth free, seeing nary a human, hearing not the sounds of diesel trucks.
Signs of human development like forgotten train bridges took me back to another time. My grandpa worked for the railroad, and I felt a hug going under this one bridge.
Well as I reminisce and tell this story tonight I think back of how many companions as in the four legged kind that has taken this trip with me
This yearly adventure will cease soon, age catches up, and my old dog struggles, just as I. This year will be my last ride in grandpa's boat. I'm gonna put a fresh coat of paint on it and place pictures of my forty years of riding down the stream of memories in my garage. Take the rockin-chair that belonged grandpa, and forever ride that stream of memories, until the last breath that I take.