River

I grew up next to a river. It was across the road and down a steep bank overgrown with towering cottonwood trees that would send little white seedling puffs into the air in late summer. There were thick spikey patches of blackberry that were ferocious in spite of their sweet fruit. Beaver would gnaw on the trees and deer would wander along the edge skirting the feisty red ant hills in the underbrush. Across the river was “the island.” It was only an island when the water was high. It was also thick with tall cottonwood trees, jammed with drifted logs, and surrounded by a sandy beach. In the spring, the snow pack from Mt. Hood would melt and the waters would rise so the trees would be growing straight out of the racing cold water. In summer and fall, the water would be so low you could walk across to the island for sun bathing and exploring. But at that time of year the island had become part of the mainland and it’s island status diminished until the winter rains.

The Sandy River is medium sized. Wide enough to walk across in the shallows of summertime but too far to throw a rock to the opposite shore. It was sometimes, infamously, referred to as the quicksand river. The bottom is soft with thick mud and no rocks. You could be wading across and step into a hole of sandy gruel that would swallow up your leg. An unknowing handful of people usually drown each summer. I remember exploring with my father and I ended up submerged to my waist. It was a struggle for both of us to free myself as I continued to be pulled down. Because of this, my parents forbade me to wander into the river alone.

I spent a lot of time sitting on the shore and watching the river. My father had rigged a pump that transported the river up to the house to water the garden and sprinkle the lawn in the summer heat. To support the pump, Dad had constructed a sturdy plank over the water propped up by a 2-by-4 attached to a piling. I would lie on the plank on my stomach and watch the green-brown river swirl and race beneath me, and smell the earthy wet green-ness. The current would rush by and I would watch for fish and bugs along with my reflection. I had time on my hands.

Being the youngest with a brother and sister 5 and 8 years older with their own adolescent lives, I grew up on my own. We lived on an isolated road that most people didn’t know was there. For the longest time I didn’t know the name of my street. Our mailing address was “Route 2, Box 7.” My school boy friends lived several miles away and my mother didn’t drive. My father worked shift work and his schedule was inconsistent. I had to entertain myself on most days and the Sandy was a distraction.

I had a secret place along the river. Secret for me, anyway. It was further down the road on to a neighbors property and down the rocky bank. Thick dark trunks of trees twisted out over the river in a cluster that was hidden by their thick leafy tops. It felt secluded and separate. I felt no one could find me there and I would disappear for hours sitting on a branch hidden from view. There were sunny days when I felt cocooned in a glowing green canopy and the river shimmered and sparkled in a pool beneath me. On gray spring colorless days, I would watch the silvery river rage in a powerful torrent. I felt it’s strength within me as it headed toward the Columbia and out to sea.

I would go there when I was sad. I would retreat when I wanted to hide from family and didn’t want them to know where I was. I went when my imagination was working overtime and I wanted to be in another world. I would think about who I wanted to be. I would fantasize about bringing a special friend (male, inevitably) to share it with. It was exciting to go somewhere only I knew about that was my own. But as far as I knew, no one came looking for me and I never heard my name being called in the distance. Eventually though, I would climb back up the bank to reality and amble home in time for dinner in the golden sunlight of a summer evening.

The secret place is no longer there. Before I left the family home for good, the trees had been cut down leaving only memories and a longing for escape.

Now, I can see the Sandy from mom’s deck. As I have my morning caffeine, I watch the gray ribbon of water move slowly between the cottonwoods that still line it’s shore. I’ve driven along its banks a few times and stopped to watch the current meander and think. What’s risen to the surface is the understanding that I don’t belong here and I can’t shake the feeling that a mistake has been made. The river of memory is different than who I’ve become and I fight the current of my environment. I’m someone else and I realize that I’ve wandered into the river alone. Just like the river, my life will keep flowing until it reaches it’s destination. But, I long to hear my name in the distance to guide me home.

"You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood ... back home to a young man's dreams of glory and of fame ... back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time — back home to the escapes of Time and Memory.”

Thomas Wolfe