There’s a river I used to live on, as a boy. By the standards of most rivers I have since come to know that it was nothing more than a pathetic trickle between rocks and sand, directed this way and that way by towering Cottonwoods and broken Oaks.
After a three-day toad strangler, a gully washer, a deluge, it might fill the banks, but for the most part it barely had enough water in it to push itself downhill. Yet, it was a magical introduction to nature and life.
It was a place of freedom and a place of myth. It was a place where someone’s uncle or a friend of a friend had witnessed extraordinary wonders. A place where Bigfoot and imaginary packs of child fattened, wild dogs roamed and ruled.
The smell of fish tainted water and rotting moss is ingrained into some of my most cherished memories. Memories easily revived and brought to bear, by the ordinary and the seemingly mundane. Passing an open air fish market, wet grass, or pissing in an unflushed toilet.
The first time I touched the silky underbelly of a catfish, I was chest deep in a bubbling black stew, comprised of almost-methane and rotting leaves. I slowly extracted the prize from beneath the bank, with gentle caresses, resisting the urge to clamp down and jerk it from the water. Afterward, I smelled my fingers; the primordial scent of survival filled my heart and spirit. I was now a man; I realized I no longer relied on others for sustenance.
I remember the mustiness of the river and the smell of mulberries boiling on the branch in the summer sun, when I first touched the silky folds of a female. Sun baked mulberries and hot poison ivy, the ancient scent of survival and strawberry shortcake shampoo. She extracted me from childhood abruptly by the root. Afterward I smelled my fingers, the primordial scent of survival had been replaced by the smell of intoxicating stupidity. I would, from then on, sacrifice my own personal identity and pride, for simple favors and the promises of such. It was autographed on my heart and soul, a signed and witnessed contract between my little head and some other party. I was now a man; I realized I would no longer be satisfied with my own ‘grip’ on reality. I had, up until that point in my life, never begged for anything other than toys and trinkets. This toy I would beg for, for the rest of my life.
Through the fuzz of Thai-stick, I remember thick river air and the creak of cricket-frogs, Marlboro smoke and plastic cups of bootleg wine. I remember, just shy of the bon-fire light, you showed me woman’s secret weapon. A witch’s kiss. An innocent witch, with the soft, upturned eyes of a doe, a good witch, whom I had persuaded to kiss a toad, with my promises of loyalty.
A soft wet kiss which had transformed a toad, into a toad shaped prince. A precious exchange worth more than gold and marriage, promises and pinky swears. Kingdoms have been traded for less…….
You could have been a global queen, had you kept hope alive and not turned your otherworldly super power, into a Father’s Day and Birthday-boy chore. Though, you still think you control the weather, the baby-sitter has much more enthusiasm.
May I offer you a Round the World Cruise of a lifetime for the price of a novel?
Not only do the seas roll on but two romances,a death at sea, uncovered past lives, history uncovered in Brazil, caves in Australia, poetry in Senegal, the Lux Mundi
There’s a river I used to live on, as a boy. By the standards of most rivers I have since come to know that it was nothing more than a pathetic trickle between rocks and sand, directed this way and that way by towering Cottonwoods and broken Oaks.
