Rock and Rivers and Lakes

"It's as though a giant boulder on the bottom of a fast-moving river has become dislodged and rolled away.   Now, the gaping hole left behind is slowly being filled with sand and silt carried in the river current."  I wrote these words on November 26, 2010, two weeks after Gwen died.

On my return to Gwen's childhood home last week I was reminded of how often things we did were done on or near bodies of water.  Gwen's dad and her brother, Ted, taught me to fish for trout on the pond in front of Barney's cottage.  First we fished with bait, then spinners, and finally, with a fiberglass rod that now looks like a bamboo pole when compared to the light-wight, graphite rods now in use, they introduced me to the art of fly-fishing.  (Our two sons, John and Mike, continued that fly-fishing tradition by becoming expert at tying their own flies and even making bamboo fly rods.  In that sense, what Ted and Barney inspired in me lives on through them.)  I first experienced the thrill of catching native brook trout on Barney's Pond.  Later, we would fish the Brule, Paint and Iron rivers, mastering the skills of fishing in a fast-moving river. Now I have come full circle as I no longer fish, but try to fill the deep hole left in my river of life by the death of my rock, my perfect partner.

It wasn't just about rivers and fishing.  We enjoyed all day canoe trips down the Brule River and picnics and outings at Chicaugoan Lake.  Later, we camped at the lake in the summer with our four children.

I remember with great clarity one hot summer night two months after we were married.  We were spending the weekend with Casimir and Bertha at the cottage, and decided to go to the lake for a swim late at night; over Bertha's protest that it was too late and that it was dangerous to swim at night.  We enjoyed cooling off and discovered a new intimacy in being alone in the moonlight in the lake.  On the way back to the cottage we took a side-trip down a dirt road to have a look at what Joey Schmidt's pond might look like in the moonlight.  Nature took its course, and I now keep that precious memory of young love in full bloom.  (It's probably at this point where our kids who may be reading this are reaching for the phone and getting ready to tell me that this might be getting a bit too personal.  To which I reply: If not now, when?)

You were always the rock, the solid boulder, in the sometimes fast-moving river of our life, Dear.  Each day, ever so slowly, the hole you left behind is being filled with the ordinary events of daily living.  There will never be another rock  like you.