The Pond

I call them memory markers, those events or places or objects that serve as bookmarks for childhood.

Like the pencil marks inside our closet doors, in my mind's eye I see images of the boys at our neighborhood pond, how they've grown both in number and height.

It was here that Andrew took his first dive when Stephen was just an infant.  Oh, sympathetic mother that I am, I held him at arm's length (I didn't want to be wet!) and assured him that he would be okay.

Another 12-18 months would pass and the same thing would happen again to the newest toddler of the family; now there are three more uninitiated members of the family.

We have seen these waters in spring and summer, fall and winter.  We've fed the fish and laughed at the turtles.  We've been awed by the enormous wingspan of the blue heron who comes to feed.  We've poked at lily pads and tossed in sweet gum balls.

The boys fish for algae, calling it "honey mustard" and delighting in throwing it at one another.

These are memories I savor: simple childhood adventures without worry or care.



So they went off together.  But wherever  they, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing. 

A.A. Milne, The House at Pooh Corner