I write sitting on the banks of “our” river on the back boundary of our farm. I am the only one here. The weather continues to be idyllic. The river is low and rolls lazily in front of me, in no great rush to ultimately reach the Long Island Sound. The small gnats are hatching on the surface offering themselves up to the small mouth bass that I know are lurking beneath, awaiting lunch. I should be out there with fly rod in hand but that will need to await another day.
I look around at our little campsite here. Immediately I remember the wife and I spending long weekends and holidays in tents. Campfire blazing, music playing on the radio, marshmallows, roasting on the coals. Two small girls are running around playing with toys, dolls and their beloved dog who cannot get enough of swimming in the river. They became grown up women on the banks of this river.
One daughter will soon graduate from physician assistant school and join the ranks of healers who I so revere. The other daughter is doing Schweitzer’s work in Africa, following that inner voice that none of us can really comprehend.
I am content here.
It is time to come home and spend more days like this at the river.