The Jock River flows very
lazily through Richmond, Ontario, my home
town. It did a poor job of living up to the
nickname everyone gave it - "the mighty
Jock". Nevertheless, parents warned
children not to stray too close for fear of them
falling in.
My mother told me never to go to
the river, but alas the way was too easy and
tempting. All I had to do was walk through
the Chenier development out back of our house and
follow the path from last house on Evelyn Street to the
river bank.
I remember doing this more than
once when I was barely old enough to be wandering the
neighbourhood alone. I clearly remember
walking through the trees and emerging at the river,
standing in the tall grass and looking down into the
water that was so languidly flowing by and wondering
why mom thought it was so dangerous...
I
didn't tell her about those solo adventures until she
was in her seventies and I in my forties. I
thought she was going to duff me even then!
She did wonder why I went against her warnings and
wandered down there all alone.
To this day I
don't know exactly why. Simple curiosity I
guess.
Maybe something more. It
was so quiet and peaceful there - as if no human had
ever seen it before.
I remember standing
there in my overalls, taking in the sounds of birds,
bugs and water, the smell of earth and grass, and murky
river, and sensing peace. It was a peace too
profound for a child to process, but easy for a child
to love and want to revisit.
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