I am Anchored in the River

 

I was born only a few short miles from the Father of Waters. The Mississippi River is a constant presence in my psyche and my memories; always changing, always flowing, never exactly the same. It scoured and flooded our history. It was a demarcation line – so wide that there was us and there was them. You could barely make out a figure on the opposite shore. Were they really there? There were so many stories.

 

   

It could be beautiful, or it could be fearsome. I remember joyful summer days on the deck of the huge excursion boat watching the shoreline and the city glide past. The big ship’s engines vibrated as it made its way through the strong current. The river's cliffs were made of red brick. Tow boats pushed barges up the river. There once were old warehouses that held cotton and furs – and a licorice factory. The old bridge made of granite and iron was built to last 1,000 years and it just might.

   

I lived as a boy near the confluence – where two great rivers flowed together. This is where Lewis and Clark, and a dog named Seaman, began the trip of discovery. This is where we ventured out, across the winter ice, to explore an island in the river. The island was big and wild, positioned where the Missouri River made a long, last bend toward its destiny. I remember the trees…massive trunks soaring skyward with piles of driftwood from ancient floods braced against their feet. There were Snakes.

   

Still later I lived in sight of the Missouri River, named after a local tribe… the People of the Big Canoes. This was near the farthest reach of French settlement in the old colonial days. The river stretched clear to the Rocky Mountains. Some of the river’s water comes from John Colter's Yellowstone and the old pathfinder was buried near here, on the south bank, not far from the edge of civilization in 1813. The sand glitters with promises of Colter's mountains: grains of Granite, Jasper, and Rosy Quartz.

   

Now I live on a hill sloping to the Rio Grande del Norte, called so by the early Spanish. The same river is called Rio Bravo in Mexico. My Keresan Pueblo Indian neighbors say “mets’ichi chena”, maybe the oldest name, meaning Big River – Rio Grande in  Spanish. The Rio Grande is a trickle by comparison to the rivers of my youth, but it is the lifeblood of the desert. Looking across the valley there is a broad forest of ancient cottonwoods following the river south toward the sea. We would not be here without the river.

   

The Navajo call the river “Tó Baʼáadi”, meaning Female River; the southward direction is given a female distinction among the Navajo. So, I have lived alongside the Female River as well as the Father of Waters. The current flows in my veins and I am anchored in the river.

   

 

Comments 4

 
Katherine Gregor on Sunday, 21 January 2018 18:35

I really enjoyed your piece. Rivers have had a big impact on my psyche and imagination, too. I love rivers. First, I had the Tiber, then the Cam, then the Wear, and now Wensum and Yare.

I really enjoyed your piece. Rivers have had a big impact on my psyche and imagination, too. I love rivers. First, I had the Tiber, then the Cam, then the Wear, and now Wensum and Yare.
Ken Hartke on Monday, 22 January 2018 16:05

The constancy is reassuring.

The constancy is reassuring.
Rosy Cole on Saturday, 27 January 2018 17:37

The way we respond to landscape is enlightening and tells as much about ourselves as the objective world. I like the immersive approach, at least when it's not Shelley, who strikes me as somewhat self-indulgent since he too often projected his emotions outside, but this a lovely evocation any reader can enjoy. It shares a world of innocence and wonder that is fast vanishing. Virtual reality has turned newer generations inwards. Many children now have no idea how food is grown, for instance, and not just those from inner cities.



The way we respond to landscape is enlightening and tells as much about ourselves as the objective world. I like the immersive approach, at least when it's not Shelley, who strikes me as somewhat self-indulgent since he too often projected his emotions outside, but this a lovely evocation any reader can enjoy. It shares a world of innocence and wonder that is fast vanishing. Virtual reality has turned newer generations inwards. Many children now have no idea how food is grown, for instance, and not just those from inner cities.
Ken Hartke on Tuesday, 30 January 2018 18:20

I think you are right, Rosy. I find that there is a missing quality of curiosity among some younger people. I kept my guardian angel very busy as a child -- hardly a moment's rest. That doesn't seem to be how things are today unless a parent or adult inspires curiosity and a sense of engagement. There seems to be something missing.

A week or so ago I was berated by a forty-year-old over my preferences in music. He (wrongly) assumed that I was unfamiliar with modern music, especially some experimental jazz artists he follows. Our conversation continued for a while on different topics and eventually I recommended a book that I thought he would find interesting. "Oh, I don't read" was his response. Reading is hard work...requires engagement. . Listening to music is a little easier. I wrote the name of the book and author on a slip of paper and gave it to him anyway. Maybe he will look for it. Maybe not.

I think you are right, Rosy. I find that there is a missing quality of curiosity among some younger people. I kept my guardian angel very busy as a child -- hardly a moment's rest. That doesn't seem to be how things are today unless a parent or adult inspires curiosity and a sense of engagement. There seems to be something missing. A week or so ago I was berated by a forty-year-old over my preferences in music. He (wrongly) assumed that I was unfamiliar with modern music, especially some experimental jazz artists he follows. Our conversation continued for a while on different topics and eventually I recommended a book that I thought he would find interesting. "Oh, I don't read" was his response. Reading is hard work...requires engagement. . Listening to music is a little easier. I wrote the name of the book and author on a slip of paper and gave it to him anyway. Maybe he will look for it. Maybe not.
Already Registered? Login Here
Guest
Monday, 23 April 2018

Captcha Image

Latest Comments

Stephen Evans Be Secret and Exult
15 April 2018
Then I shall be secret and exult
Monika Schott Stop for a minute, or a week
15 April 2018
So true, Rosy. I can really feel that, being 'hustled and swept away into a storyline that doesn't b...
Rosy Cole Stop for a minute, or a week
15 April 2018
A life-affirming post, Moni, so vibrant, and its wisdom was never more needed. The world is desperat...
Rosy Cole Be Secret and Exult
15 April 2018
Steve, I'm not sure that either of us has fully understood this badly crafted poem, at least from th...
Monika Schott Stop for a minute, or a week
14 April 2018
Timely indeed, Di. Keep that feeling. ?

Latest Blogs

Stop and smell the roses, so they say. Force the halt, cease all activity apart from the necessity to breathe. Even if only for a few minutes, althou...
It is National Poetry Month here in the US, so I thought I would offer one from my favorites: To a Friend Whose Work Has Come to Nothing By Wil...
          Inside Out Modern translations of St Paul said 'puzzling reflections' in describing perception, with ...
The architecture of trees fascinates me. How do the branches know how to grow? Complexity theory? Fibonacci Sequences? Artificial intelligence? ...
Taking yearly pilgrimages started after my serendipitous journey to Sedona.  What made that such a pivotal point, was the juxtaposition of entrapment ...