The river
17/08/16 05:45
When I was eight years old our family suddenly went from two boys to four. Doubling the number of boys in the house was, in retrospect, a rather dramatic move. Our house always seemed large to me when I was a boy growing up, but we always had more than one kid in each room and there were times when you had to wait to use one of the two bathrooms because they were both in use.
Our father said, “Those boys need some space outdoors to run and play.” When the opportunity to purchase the Bond’s Tourist Cabins on a small acreage down by the river presented itself, he put in a bid. The transfer was completed and our family owned a cluster of run-down and abandoned tourist cabins right next to a beautiful river. The place was overgrown with weeds. He brought down a tractor and a brush mower and began to clear some of the overgrown grass and small trees. The mower hit so many rocks on that first trip around the yard that the sparks were constantly flying and we were all ushered inside to be safe from the flying rock fragments.
Our first summers at the place were fairly primitive. Suppers were cooked outside at the campfire and the cobwebs were cleaned out of the shower house. It sprung leaks almost as fast as the old ones were repaired and then the water pressure would disappear all together. Soon there was a tractor digging to install a new septic tank and prepare for the foundation for a new bathroom addition to one of the cabins. Meanwhile we learned to cut glass and putty new panes into the broken windows, scrape and paint interior walls and shingle roofs.
After two or three years, during which our folks worked and we mostly played, the place began to look a little bit better. Inexpensive plywood siding was put up on several of the buildings and stain applied. The construction meant that there were always plenty of old boards lying around and we began to construct tree houses. The first one was in a large cottonwood tree in the yard. The second was on an island in the river. The construction consumed quite a bit of our time and probably was not up to code.
As we fixed the place up my aunt said on one of her visits, “Don’t make it too pretty. I like it wild.”
By the time we were teenagers the place at the river offered small, independent sleeping spaces. During the school year I had to share a room with my brother, but in the summer, I had a small cabin all to myself unless we were hosting guests and the bed assignments had to be shuffled.
It was a great way to grow up.
The years have passed. Our parents have died. The house in town has been sold. The businesses our father ran belong to others. The cabins by the river, however, look pretty good. They are sporting new roofs and have been recently walnut blasted and re-stained on the outside. My sister has been cleaning and making everything ready for guests. There is a sense of homecoming about staying here for a little while. Even our meal choices remind me of the days when we were growing up and the place was a magnet for guests from around the world and there was always room for one more at dinner. We were 14 for lunch yesterday and 17 for supper. Supper was cooked outside: hot dogs and hamburgers with a big salad and all of the fixings.
My knowledge of the place is simply based on more than 50 years of coming to the same place. I know a lot of stories of what went on here and when we get together the stories get told. Since it was a place we took our children when they were growing up and both of them are here with us for a few days, the stories of multiple generations mingle as we sit and talk around the campfire.
We went down to the river yesterday, as we do every day, and last night I officiated as we baptized a great niece, the granddaughter of my brother. The young children then delighted in throwing rocks in the river. The river has changed a lot since my childhood. The main channel of the river has moved away from our side leaving a boulder field larger than a football field. But it is still the same river. It sounds the same and smells the same and is equally cold to the times when we were kids. It is still a great place for kids to throw rocks and delight in the splashes.
I told the kids that I’ve been throwing rocks in that river for more than 50 years and that it hasn’t filled up with rocks yet. It seems almost as if the work of children throwing rocks is part of the maintenance that the river needs to stay healthy and free. At least we’ve never run out of rocks on the bottom of the river, either.
Of course the work of the river, rounding the boulders and carrying water to the ocean, has been going on for millennia and proceeds at a pace that is often slower than our perception. The river not only carves new channels in the landscape, it also wears a deeper valley in the ground. It has cut through the hard rocks of the high mountains and the softer dirt of the foothills. It has carried mud and trees and all kinds of other things down to the larger Yellowstone River that flows into the Missouri that flows into the Mississippi that flows into the Gulf of Mexico.
One day the cabins will all be gone. The family that claims ownership of the property will be different. Even the stories may be forgotten. But the river will remain.
Our father said, “Those boys need some space outdoors to run and play.” When the opportunity to purchase the Bond’s Tourist Cabins on a small acreage down by the river presented itself, he put in a bid. The transfer was completed and our family owned a cluster of run-down and abandoned tourist cabins right next to a beautiful river. The place was overgrown with weeds. He brought down a tractor and a brush mower and began to clear some of the overgrown grass and small trees. The mower hit so many rocks on that first trip around the yard that the sparks were constantly flying and we were all ushered inside to be safe from the flying rock fragments.
Our first summers at the place were fairly primitive. Suppers were cooked outside at the campfire and the cobwebs were cleaned out of the shower house. It sprung leaks almost as fast as the old ones were repaired and then the water pressure would disappear all together. Soon there was a tractor digging to install a new septic tank and prepare for the foundation for a new bathroom addition to one of the cabins. Meanwhile we learned to cut glass and putty new panes into the broken windows, scrape and paint interior walls and shingle roofs.
After two or three years, during which our folks worked and we mostly played, the place began to look a little bit better. Inexpensive plywood siding was put up on several of the buildings and stain applied. The construction meant that there were always plenty of old boards lying around and we began to construct tree houses. The first one was in a large cottonwood tree in the yard. The second was on an island in the river. The construction consumed quite a bit of our time and probably was not up to code.
As we fixed the place up my aunt said on one of her visits, “Don’t make it too pretty. I like it wild.”
By the time we were teenagers the place at the river offered small, independent sleeping spaces. During the school year I had to share a room with my brother, but in the summer, I had a small cabin all to myself unless we were hosting guests and the bed assignments had to be shuffled.
It was a great way to grow up.
The years have passed. Our parents have died. The house in town has been sold. The businesses our father ran belong to others. The cabins by the river, however, look pretty good. They are sporting new roofs and have been recently walnut blasted and re-stained on the outside. My sister has been cleaning and making everything ready for guests. There is a sense of homecoming about staying here for a little while. Even our meal choices remind me of the days when we were growing up and the place was a magnet for guests from around the world and there was always room for one more at dinner. We were 14 for lunch yesterday and 17 for supper. Supper was cooked outside: hot dogs and hamburgers with a big salad and all of the fixings.
My knowledge of the place is simply based on more than 50 years of coming to the same place. I know a lot of stories of what went on here and when we get together the stories get told. Since it was a place we took our children when they were growing up and both of them are here with us for a few days, the stories of multiple generations mingle as we sit and talk around the campfire.
We went down to the river yesterday, as we do every day, and last night I officiated as we baptized a great niece, the granddaughter of my brother. The young children then delighted in throwing rocks in the river. The river has changed a lot since my childhood. The main channel of the river has moved away from our side leaving a boulder field larger than a football field. But it is still the same river. It sounds the same and smells the same and is equally cold to the times when we were kids. It is still a great place for kids to throw rocks and delight in the splashes.
I told the kids that I’ve been throwing rocks in that river for more than 50 years and that it hasn’t filled up with rocks yet. It seems almost as if the work of children throwing rocks is part of the maintenance that the river needs to stay healthy and free. At least we’ve never run out of rocks on the bottom of the river, either.
Of course the work of the river, rounding the boulders and carrying water to the ocean, has been going on for millennia and proceeds at a pace that is often slower than our perception. The river not only carves new channels in the landscape, it also wears a deeper valley in the ground. It has cut through the hard rocks of the high mountains and the softer dirt of the foothills. It has carried mud and trees and all kinds of other things down to the larger Yellowstone River that flows into the Missouri that flows into the Mississippi that flows into the Gulf of Mexico.
One day the cabins will all be gone. The family that claims ownership of the property will be different. Even the stories may be forgotten. But the river will remain.