The River Of Life

I will introduce myself as a lifelong writer, from humble means, raised on a small family farm in the bottom of Beaver Valley. We will be getting to know each other, via the magic of online publishing, which for a lot of us, did not exist when we were kids. A lot of my writing transpires from my love of nature, which was vastly nurtured as I explored the Beaver River, and hiked the valley and the hills up to the escarpment face. Our group of youngsters from Kimberley and the neighbouring farms loved to explore, and we found a way to scale up the face of Old Baldy, with the help of a big, old maple tree. We would climb to the top of the tree, inch outward on the highest limb, and scramble onto a lower ledge of rock. From there it was easy to crawl on up to the top of the highest pinnacle. There you could stand at the outmost edge and breathe in the fresh, balmy air, and take in the sight of the whole valley laid out before you, far beneath the rock, and you could watch the silver thread of the river, gently winding its way along the valley floor. Memories such as these, inspired much poetry and many stories. Below is one example.

 

The River Of Life

Twelve is such a substantial age. You are still a child, protected and worried over, so that you do not have to do the worrying. At twelve, finally, you are able to look into the adult stage with somewhat of a glimmer of understanding of that baffling realm. I was, at twelve, beginning to glimpse the person I was becoming and I knew a poetess lurked there. I spent hours in the sun, and sported a deep, golden tan and no one was concerned about the ozone layer or sunscreen. I enjoyed the opportunity to spend endless days roaming the fields and examining the frog ponds in search of Mother Nature’s treasures, ones like the daddy bullfrog on his lily pad, governing his domain, his wives, his children and I would name them all. Tirelessly, I explored the hills, the ravines, the caves and caverns, creeks and ponds, and of course...the river.
The Beaver River was an entity in itself. It flowed serenely, at times cascading, musically playing its way down the valley floor where it meandered and curved itself into a stream of sparkling, blue beauty. Its magic drew us to her. We were drawn mindlessly to the rapids that sang in soprano and alto, a duet of playfulness and delight. Then just below a fallen tree, the eddies would spin in miraculous, forever motion.
When I was twelve, I had a crew of pirates at my command. We built and manned a raft of cedar logs roped together with binder twine from my Dad’s barn. It didn’t matter that the pirates possessed brown, girlish legs like my own, or that we all giggled and wore pigtails. We were, nevertheless, the bravest bunch in all the valley and certainly more daring than the boys who dove off the high board at Ezra’s Bridge, into the deepest hole of the river.
It was at the Beaver River that we proved ourselves. On the river we sailed our vessel and scouted for bandits on the banks. In the river we went skinny dipping and knew the freedom of just “being”. On the sandy banks of the river, we built a fort that lasted well into our teenage years.
When we were twelve, we swapped stories about the mysteries of life and did not yet care to give up any of our priceless hours of watching the skippers on the river, for more grown up pastimes like dating boys. We spent lazy hours on our tummies, watching the grasshoppers in the long grass, and thought that to pray alongside the praying mantis meant our wishes would surely come true. Tadpoles were captured, named, and then mercifully let go again at the edge of the stream. Families were left intact, and at night we counted the fireflies and the stars.
Now, when I walk those banks of the river, no longer so close to home, I still hear the magical voices lilting in the air. Pirates they are, you know, calling out when the bandits come near, giggling to cover up the self conscious stretching of t-shirts across budding, little breasts, but bravely clutching their long poles, manning the big raft, and dearly holding onto the last threads of childhood.

　

pen name ~ cailin raine