memories…my memory doesn’t serve me like it did only a few short years ago. While attempting to restore order to my overloaded garage, I came upon a dusty shoebox, taped shut setting on a shelf with seldom used this and that. Inside were birthday cards to Dad, old drawings from the kids, little, at the time, sentimental baubles. When I look at such keepsakes, I am always struck by the passage of time. I do the math, shake my head, and put the lid back on the box…..after snapping a photo.
solitude, children playing, camping, fishing, a gazillion stars, afternoon breezes, naps, scrapes and teaching about nature. Fond memories…
Big Summit Prairie, Ochoco Mtns. Oregon, 1993
‘True nostalgia is an ephemeral composition of disjointed memories.’ Florence King
in a remote place, far from the madding crowd at the Hermitage.
“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.” C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
Before propane stoves, there were white gas stoves on the end of the picnic table. Before that my Dad cooked over an open fire on a make shift grill. Great memories learning camp craft or taking the family to the Wallowa’s, Ochocho’s, Cascades, Crooked R., Snake R., B.C.
Some 50 years ago, I started fly fishing the Crooked River in Central Oregon. My family and friends enjoyed many camping trips in the canyon back in the day…the river always runs off color but has many beautiful trout. My sons all caught some of their first trout on this river.
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Here’s a pic of my youngest son, Tony many years ago.
I recall fishing with older gents years ago. Often, I would see them taking breaks, leaving the water, be it a lake or river, to sit and stare. The conditions weren’t particularly harsh. Why were they not fishing at the optimum times?! I would power on hour after hour, catching fish and shaking my head to the fun the older gents were missing.
Those gents are long gone now. Moved on to quieter waters. These days, things have changed. I don’t fish nearly as much. When I do, I put in a half hour or so and then find a place to sit. I smoke my briar, stare at the water, maybe take some photos. My mind is not as energized to fish for hours on end. I am now one of those older gents. Things changed along the way and the urgency isn’t there. I surely enjoy the outdoors, the waters, the imagining of fish and habitat. Yet, a break along the shore is now as good as the throwing a line for hours on end. Now I see.
Oregon Coastal River © SwittersB
“Every summer, like the roses, childhood returns.” Marty Rubin….Sometimes, I can recall being a playful, imaginative child caught up in pretending games…I can connect to the memory, but not the emotions.
