The Lament of the Aefwulf
This past week has been interesting. For example, on Tuesday I started a job, and on Thursday morning I quit. It was a job going door-to-door doing sales for Bellsouth, so I will assume my displeasure comes as no surprise. I did learn a few things from the experience, though. Primarily that I'm absolutely ill-suited to sales, but also that the transition into the working life, and really into any other type of life will not be an easy one. I must be prepared even as I persevere.
On another note, I finished the River article I put up here previously and have submitted it to a contest with Writer's Digest. Winners to be announced in October. Grr. Anyway, here it is. I'll warn you, not much has changed.
Spending summer after summer on the banks of the Edisto River will do things to you. Strange things. You start to think of the musk of old houses and nearby swamps as the smell of home. You also find that, as the Edisto is a ‘black’ river, no water is too dark for you to swim in anymore. Even a trip to the beach is different. After being surrounded by trees and birds and having to navigate a current whenever you swim, the beach seems a little… boring. Time on the river was such a part of my life as a child that even today I can hardly imagine a fulfilling summer without ice-cold swims, walking past walls of trees, and lazy afternoon float-downs.
It all began on a nondescript stretch of South Carolina Road 70 where two curved brick walls guard the turn into the Denmark Country Club. Its members, who include my parents and those of my friends, built houses along the riverbank. When they started to have families, they were able to share their love of the Edisto with a new generation. It became an affection so deep that even when people move away, it seems that at some point, like a pining lover, the Edisto calls us back.
Before my friends and I arrived on the scene, I don’t doubt that our parents already had a ritual for moving out to the River. Whatever it may have been, the migration from town to country changed to accommodate a school schedule. Through autumn, winter, and spring, the houses would sit, gathering dust and leaves. Then, an exodus every summer would turn our sleepy retreat into a playground for young and old.
And play we did. Looking back, I’m impressed with how much my friends and I were able to find to fill our days. Give children water and woods, and the possibilities are endless. We swam, hunted for turtles, molded river clay, played in the sand, and, when we were old enough, took to exploring up and down the bends of the River in motorboats. Even our parents, most of whom still worked during the day, found a new vigor. Fathers and mothers who used to come home tired from a day’s work would walk in smiling on the group of barefoot, swimsuit-clad children that had invaded their house. I think there was something almost pastoral about life at the River that the adults found relaxing. The River was meant to be an escape, a life of enjoying your friends and family in full Southern splendor.
It wasn’t always just our immediate community, either. Every summer saw visiting friends or relatives coming to enjoy our laid-back oasis, with two occasions in particular seeing the greatest immigration. The first was Vacation Bible School, led by our pastor and the women of our church at the beginning of June. Such programs are held all over the state, but in addition to songs, crafts, and worship, we had lots of swimming. To be honest, we were more interested in the swimming than the worship. Still, we were the products of church-going families, and inaugurating each summer with songs of praise was as natural to our Southern souls as swimming in water stained the color of sweet tea.
The other big event for us was Independence Day. While the mothers led Bible School, the dads captained celebrations for the 4th. Four or five pigs would be put to roast all night on a car-sized grill with Budweiser-armed sentries to keep watch, and an arsenal of fireworks was readied by an army of children in every bedroom of every house. Each day approaching the 4th was a trial of patience only eased by the fashioning of bottle rocket launchers (steel pipes always worked best.) I was in the fortunate position to see how the adults celebrated, since my parents hosted a 4th of July party every year. Whenever I finished blowing things up with my friends, I came back to find all the adults I knew engaged in the most confusing pastime a child can witness: sitting and talking.
Perhaps my fondest memories of the River are the afternoons of quietly exploring its bends in a canoe. Just as the River was an escape from normal life, taking canoe trips further up and down its length was a respite from the chatter of excited toddlers and the ‘whoosh’ of passing cars. When I was still a beginner with a canoe, it was frightening trying to navigate both the current and the occasional fallen tree. After enough trips, though, I was able to appreciate the unassuming beauty of unspoiled nature. With the sunlight sparkling on the brown currents and shimmering in the leaves, it almost felt like an intrusion to break the surface of the waters with my paddle.
When I write of the River like this, I know that my memories have faded a bit. The happiness they brought to my younger self has filled in the gaps of my recollection like young roots spreading through a soft soil, and I’m not one to complain. It suffuses my thoughts with a warmth and glow not unlike how you feel when you hear a beautiful song for the first time. Still, walking barefoot circuits past quiet houses on warm summer evenings is romantic to remember, but it was just another day to the boy in my memories. I suppose it’s the way of growing up.
As the years of my childhood came to a close, it wasn’t long before life started to become more complicated. Summers became filled with camps and the encroaching responsibilities of high school. Soon enough, I had discovered computers, and the phosphorous glow of a monitor was more attractive than the sunlight falling through the leaves. I miss those days as anyone misses innocent days gone by, but I am careful not to be too enamored with the past. The River still flows, after all, and a boy with the waters of the Edisto in his veins can hardly afford to stay still, or stop dreaming, for long.
I'll try sending it other places soon, but first I shall breathe a sigh of relief and accomplishment that it's done. It wasn't as hard as I thought, actually. Now I just need something else to write about.
Oh, yes. This is freaking awesome. No, the goggles aren't required for viewing; they're to protect from vagrant lasers. They're working on making it safer, but they've done it! Future here we come!
That's about it for now.
Edit: Thanks to Arnold's observation, I have provided a link to the amusing picture, instead.
Twilight out.
That's what I call getting some tail.
On another note, I finished the River article I put up here previously and have submitted it to a contest with Writer's Digest. Winners to be announced in October. Grr. Anyway, here it is. I'll warn you, not much has changed.
Spending summer after summer on the banks of the Edisto River will do things to you. Strange things. You start to think of the musk of old houses and nearby swamps as the smell of home. You also find that, as the Edisto is a ‘black’ river, no water is too dark for you to swim in anymore. Even a trip to the beach is different. After being surrounded by trees and birds and having to navigate a current whenever you swim, the beach seems a little… boring. Time on the river was such a part of my life as a child that even today I can hardly imagine a fulfilling summer without ice-cold swims, walking past walls of trees, and lazy afternoon float-downs.
It all began on a nondescript stretch of South Carolina Road 70 where two curved brick walls guard the turn into the Denmark Country Club. Its members, who include my parents and those of my friends, built houses along the riverbank. When they started to have families, they were able to share their love of the Edisto with a new generation. It became an affection so deep that even when people move away, it seems that at some point, like a pining lover, the Edisto calls us back.
Before my friends and I arrived on the scene, I don’t doubt that our parents already had a ritual for moving out to the River. Whatever it may have been, the migration from town to country changed to accommodate a school schedule. Through autumn, winter, and spring, the houses would sit, gathering dust and leaves. Then, an exodus every summer would turn our sleepy retreat into a playground for young and old.
And play we did. Looking back, I’m impressed with how much my friends and I were able to find to fill our days. Give children water and woods, and the possibilities are endless. We swam, hunted for turtles, molded river clay, played in the sand, and, when we were old enough, took to exploring up and down the bends of the River in motorboats. Even our parents, most of whom still worked during the day, found a new vigor. Fathers and mothers who used to come home tired from a day’s work would walk in smiling on the group of barefoot, swimsuit-clad children that had invaded their house. I think there was something almost pastoral about life at the River that the adults found relaxing. The River was meant to be an escape, a life of enjoying your friends and family in full Southern splendor.
It wasn’t always just our immediate community, either. Every summer saw visiting friends or relatives coming to enjoy our laid-back oasis, with two occasions in particular seeing the greatest immigration. The first was Vacation Bible School, led by our pastor and the women of our church at the beginning of June. Such programs are held all over the state, but in addition to songs, crafts, and worship, we had lots of swimming. To be honest, we were more interested in the swimming than the worship. Still, we were the products of church-going families, and inaugurating each summer with songs of praise was as natural to our Southern souls as swimming in water stained the color of sweet tea.
The other big event for us was Independence Day. While the mothers led Bible School, the dads captained celebrations for the 4th. Four or five pigs would be put to roast all night on a car-sized grill with Budweiser-armed sentries to keep watch, and an arsenal of fireworks was readied by an army of children in every bedroom of every house. Each day approaching the 4th was a trial of patience only eased by the fashioning of bottle rocket launchers (steel pipes always worked best.) I was in the fortunate position to see how the adults celebrated, since my parents hosted a 4th of July party every year. Whenever I finished blowing things up with my friends, I came back to find all the adults I knew engaged in the most confusing pastime a child can witness: sitting and talking.
Perhaps my fondest memories of the River are the afternoons of quietly exploring its bends in a canoe. Just as the River was an escape from normal life, taking canoe trips further up and down its length was a respite from the chatter of excited toddlers and the ‘whoosh’ of passing cars. When I was still a beginner with a canoe, it was frightening trying to navigate both the current and the occasional fallen tree. After enough trips, though, I was able to appreciate the unassuming beauty of unspoiled nature. With the sunlight sparkling on the brown currents and shimmering in the leaves, it almost felt like an intrusion to break the surface of the waters with my paddle.
When I write of the River like this, I know that my memories have faded a bit. The happiness they brought to my younger self has filled in the gaps of my recollection like young roots spreading through a soft soil, and I’m not one to complain. It suffuses my thoughts with a warmth and glow not unlike how you feel when you hear a beautiful song for the first time. Still, walking barefoot circuits past quiet houses on warm summer evenings is romantic to remember, but it was just another day to the boy in my memories. I suppose it’s the way of growing up.
As the years of my childhood came to a close, it wasn’t long before life started to become more complicated. Summers became filled with camps and the encroaching responsibilities of high school. Soon enough, I had discovered computers, and the phosphorous glow of a monitor was more attractive than the sunlight falling through the leaves. I miss those days as anyone misses innocent days gone by, but I am careful not to be too enamored with the past. The River still flows, after all, and a boy with the waters of the Edisto in his veins can hardly afford to stay still, or stop dreaming, for long.
I'll try sending it other places soon, but first I shall breathe a sigh of relief and accomplishment that it's done. It wasn't as hard as I thought, actually. Now I just need something else to write about.
Oh, yes. This is freaking awesome. No, the goggles aren't required for viewing; they're to protect from vagrant lasers. They're working on making it safer, but they've done it! Future here we come!
That's about it for now.
Edit: Thanks to Arnold's observation, I have provided a link to the amusing picture, instead.
Twilight out.
That's what I call getting some tail.
posted by Aisyrn | 11:28 PM
3 Comments:
Man, lasers are cool!
Wassup with the Aefwulf bit?
And the Deviant thingie didn't work... :-P
Aefwulf is a lame attempt at melding some Old English words, aefning(evening) and wulf(uh.. wolf). Twilight Wolf, if you will, like my banner.
Congrats on the submission! I love the story.
Post a Comment
<< Home