Grateful
I am home from a camping trip that reminded me of camping trips of old. At several points there were seven children all under the age of eight, running through the camp, splashing in the river, and making joyful noise. The fourth generation. And we were light at least one family who is away in Virginia, with two more children. Of course, there were bumps and bruises and a tear or two, but it was the normal stuff of little learners, learning.
It was the first trip without one of the mothers seminal to the gathering. This is the third one we’ve lost. But there was plenty of time for reflection and soft shed tears, with the beauty of the river and the place offering a warm and consoling embrace. Even the rains, which dampened many a previous trip, managed to hold off, giving us cool, clear moonlit nights, and a gentle entry into fall, the season of the year, and a time of life.
On the way home my traveling companion and I went the long way, two old guys, both now wifeless. We fell into our old ways with ease, the days of hunting, camping, and general travel. We took a back road or two, stopped to read historical markers, looked at other rivers, and told each other stories, some were repeats. We even broke out the paper maps because sometimes it’s good to see the entire state to really know where you are. In the end, I got home after dark, threw down my gear, took a hot shower, and climbed into bed, grateful for what I have and what I’ve been given.