This is another one to file under the Etc Column (i.e., not about Orthodoxy) \u2026<\/em><\/p>\n \tRed stick, frayed paper, floating down the river. America\u2019s birthday, day after. The spent rocket launcher passes by the pier as he drifts into memories.<\/p>\n \tRemembering the days of his youth, many ill spent, he realizes that when he was younger he never saw the beauty. He saw dirty water, red mud, mosquitoes, water moccasins, mom and dad. It wasn\u2019t all bad, it just wasn\u2019t as pretty as it seems now.<\/p>\n \tYesterday, his six year old son had been afraid to jump off the pier even though he sported a life vest. As a help, as his dad, he\u2019d thrown him in. Thank God it had worked. The young\u2019un had spent the next three hours plunging in solo.<\/p>\n \tThis morning his son had come to him and related a dream: \u201cDad, I had a bad dream. I dreamed I was in the water, at the deep end of the pier, and I couldn\u2019t get up, and I kept saying, \u2018Dad! Dad!\u2019 and you couldn\u2019t hear me.\u201d<\/p>\n \tHe\u2019d told his son that his dream had probably been due to his fears from the day before. He\u2019d tried his psycho-babble best to flesh out his fears, his dream. When quizzed later, his son\u2019s answer was a sufficient echo of what he\u2019d told him. He would eventually forget that stuff and probably look back in 30 years or so on red mud, dirty water, water moccasins \u2026 daddy threw him in the water.<\/p>\n \tIt\u2019s all good, sooner or later. Every now and then, in some psychological, metaphysical, mundane way, it all comes together. For brief moments, occasionally, life made sense.<\/p>\n \tWhen the planets aligned and he held his mouth just right, like an autobiographical decoder ring, he could see clearly into the past. The beauty of it all. With proper understanding, once in a blue moon, even bad was beautiful. Not necessarily bad stuff like divorce, drinking and drugging, friendship lost, death. Nope, those were just things that bumped into beauty yet were\u2019t a part of. Rather, it was the memories which had been sanitized and prettified by his mind that took on a hue quite unlike ugly. What else would you call it?<\/p>\n \tNot many ripples in today\u2019s waves. The red stick had moved only about three feet down the river over the past hour. Often, if you sat on the porch long enough, you could see a water moccasin swim past. Beautiful. Terror and beauty blended in a sidewinder.<\/p>\n \tA flutter and a splash! Two duck swam up into flight and soon disappeared. The morning sun was beginning to burn off the cool mist. A fisherman\u2019s bass boat sped past. Soon the haze of a 93 degree day would manifest itself. For now it was birds, bugs \u2026 beauty.<\/p>\n \tYesterday, the Fourth, as he\u2019d sat listening to his grandmother, he was plunged thirty-eight years into the past. Having learned to water ski on two skis at the age of six, his father was determined that he was going to learn to slalom at the age of seven: that very day, the Fourth of July. There was a whole gaggle of folks down at the lake house. They were on the pier, the deck, in the yard, the water. His father was showing off his boy. Yes, today \u2014 that day \u2014 his boy would do it.<\/p>\n \tBy the time he did do it, it had only been his grandmother and grandfather left on the pier. Dusk had settled in. He had literally cried a river. His angry father had lost all patience. It was going badly. He remembered his father saying, \u201cSon, I tell you what, if you don\u2019t get up this time, I\u2019m going to carry you across the lake and make you swim home.\u201d It didn\u2019t seem factual, but at age seven anything was possible. Even coming out of the water on one foot and skiing in fear and triumph around the lake at dusk in front of your grandmother was possible. So that\u2019s what he\u2019d done. Thanks be to God.<\/p>\n \tHis father had done him a great favor, making him slalom at the age of seven. All through adolescence he was known \u2014 in his mind and those of his friends \u2014 as one of the greatest skiers on the lake. He stared at his own son; wondered what he\u2019d become.<\/p>\n \tHis uncle\u2019s pier was adjacent to theirs. It was his father\u2019s habit to speed into the cove and turn the Glastron at such an angle that he, the skier, could land between both piers spraying a fifteen foot high water rooster tail. An impressive end to a solo water show.<\/p>\n \tHe was fifteen years old when he\u2019d met the water moccasin. He never skied unless there was an audience, and that day had been no different. His girlfriend was in the boat as his dad swooped into the cove. As he did his trademarked water spout, there, looking down \u2014 in an instant \u2014 he saw that he was circling a snake.<\/p>\n \tOne of the truisms of water skiing, gravity being what it is and all, is: When you let go of the rope, you\u2019re going down. God! How he\u2019d wished he could grab the towline back! A snake!<\/p>\n \tAs he\u2019d come up from the splash, the snake was swimming \u2014 with his mouth open \u2014 right toward his head, eye level. Without thinking, he threw his right hand up through the water, connected with the belly of the serpent, and sent him up about two feet in the air. Then, turning toward his uncle\u2019s pier, he\u2019d tried to swim.<\/p>\n \tHe\u2019d been swimming since he was five. With a good ten years under his belt, he\u0092d finally failed. Like a gossip rendered speechless, he\u2019d flailed about in the water. He became a madman.<\/p>\n \tFrom a distance, in the boat, his dad heard his calls: \u201cHelp! Snake! Help, help! Snake! Snake!\u201d He\u2019d later learned that his dad had said to his sweetheart, \u201cI wish he wouldn\u2019t do that. One day there\u2019s really going to be a snake.\u201d<\/p>\n \tUnbeknownst to dear old dad, that day had arrived. <\/p>\n He kept slashing like a retard, gurgling screams, eyes wild with fear. He remembers even trying to swim underwater. Opening his eyes in the muddy vortex, what had he seen? Snakes! He\u2019d entered that part of fear where anything\u2019s possible: mad dad making you swim home, skiing on one foot, death by a thousand moccasins.<\/p>\n \tOne thing was for certain: He couldn\u2019t swim. Yet he\u2019d somehow made it to his uncle\u2019s pier. He climbed the ladder and \u2014 though at that moment, looking at his uncle, he\u2019d never been so happy to see someone is all his life \u2014 he\u2019d said: \u201cDammit! There\u2019s a snake in there! Why didn\u2019t you help me!\u201d<\/p>\n \tReality, oftentimes being stranger than fiction, saw his uncle laughing. It was a friendly laugh, but just before he was about to show his uncle the appreciation of a punch in the nose, he\u2019d heard: \u201cLook \u2026 that snake ain\u2019t after you. You scared him off!\u201d<\/p>\n \tHe looked back toward his parents\u2019 pier. The snake was a good swimmer. Fear had not slowed the sidewinder\u2019s skill. He was going, going. Gone.<\/p>\n \tHis eyes searched for the spent firework. The waves had picked up over the past twenty minutes. He couldn\u2019t see it. He wondered if, by some sort of cosmic kismet, it was now between those same two piers. Nope. Being a stick, having no water skills, it had obviously sunk.<\/p>\n \tBetween two trees he spotted a massive spider web, its spirals leading to its owner and creator. There\u2019s a sinkhole by the seawall. Big water rats and snakes used those tunnels. There were bubbles at the pier\u2019s edge. Probably a turtle.<\/p>\n \tThough it wasn\u2019t yet hot he could see three or four small Brim under the shade of the pier. Later in the day, he was planning to swim with his kids. But now it was time to head into town to visit his father. Dying of cancer.<\/p>\n \tRed stick, frayed paper, floating down the river.<\/p>\n<\/body><\/html>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" This is another one to file under the Etc Column (i.e., not about Orthodoxy) \u2026 Red stick, frayed paper, floating down the river. America\u2019s birthday, day after. The spent rocket launcher passes by the pier as he drifts into memories. Remembering the days of his youth, many ill spent, he realizes that when he was […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1691,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2332","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"yoast_head":"\n