I'm not sure what brings it on, but occasionally I suffer from fits of nostalgia. During these episodes my mind roams throughout my history in search of memories to latch onto.
My most recent memory of choice is pulled from my childhood files. Growing up, my family lived on a farm along the Kings River. To those who live in the region surrounding the St. Lawrence, my river was a mere stream, or maybe even a small trickle of water winding its way through the farmland of the San Joaquin Valley. But to me, it was The River; the only river I knew. I have many fond memories of playing with my brothers in, at, and around it; and of lonely, contented walks up the river to the weir through which the water came rushing on its way to some other place.
One year my brothers and I had the good fortune of experiencing a flood. I can not recall why the river got so high that year, though I'm sure I was told at the time, but the water covered the wide, hilly, sandy area which I could sometimes imagine was a desert. After days of playing in the newly risen river we got the idea of going boating. Now, my father probably had his canoe at this time, but a real sailing vessel would not do. Instead, we found an old horse trough, big enough for two and a couple of oars. Amazingly, it floated. To an eleven and nine year old, sailing in a horse trough was funner than any toy we might have received at Christmas. Though I clearly remember the fun of sailing, I do not recall big events that were happening in my imagination. Perhaps we were sailing around the world, or perhaps we were on a war ship, or even the Dawn Treader. Whatever our horse trough might have been in our world, we were captivated.
Countless, carefree hours were spent in this activity. As an adult, it doesn't sound like anything special; but making wondrous times out of simple, makeshift toys is part of the magic of childhood. Maybe it's also part the lost magic of adulthood. Perhaps I should let my boys dig a lake in the back yard so I can have a second round of fun.
My most recent memory of choice is pulled from my childhood files. Growing up, my family lived on a farm along the Kings River. To those who live in the region surrounding the St. Lawrence, my river was a mere stream, or maybe even a small trickle of water winding its way through the farmland of the San Joaquin Valley. But to me, it was The River; the only river I knew. I have many fond memories of playing with my brothers in, at, and around it; and of lonely, contented walks up the river to the weir through which the water came rushing on its way to some other place.
One year my brothers and I had the good fortune of experiencing a flood. I can not recall why the river got so high that year, though I'm sure I was told at the time, but the water covered the wide, hilly, sandy area which I could sometimes imagine was a desert. After days of playing in the newly risen river we got the idea of going boating. Now, my father probably had his canoe at this time, but a real sailing vessel would not do. Instead, we found an old horse trough, big enough for two and a couple of oars. Amazingly, it floated. To an eleven and nine year old, sailing in a horse trough was funner than any toy we might have received at Christmas. Though I clearly remember the fun of sailing, I do not recall big events that were happening in my imagination. Perhaps we were sailing around the world, or perhaps we were on a war ship, or even the Dawn Treader. Whatever our horse trough might have been in our world, we were captivated.
Countless, carefree hours were spent in this activity. As an adult, it doesn't sound like anything special; but making wondrous times out of simple, makeshift toys is part of the magic of childhood. Maybe it's also part the lost magic of adulthood. Perhaps I should let my boys dig a lake in the back yard so I can have a second round of fun.
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