Flat Rock | Rippled Pond 11|26|11

Saturday, November 26, 2011

Flat Rock | Rippled Pond

this creative life ...

Life swept me up and skipped me like a flat rock over a rippled pond.

One of the joys of my childhood, and perhaps even its saving grace, was the Willamina River bordering our small farm in rural Oregon. With nearly one-half mile that was mine to explore, I was never happier than when I escaped to its edge and allowed myself to indulge in minute explorations of this moist, boggy, ferny paradise. Robinson Crusoe fantasies dominated my play, for by the age of eight, some part of me wanted to escape the conflicts that were a daily part of life in my family.

The river bank is where I learned to skip rocks, catch crawdads, check the boggy areas for minnows, and observe the development of tadpoles each spring and summer. I recall the delight I felt when discovering a gleaming, gelatinous mass of frog eggs, each with a distinct pair of eyes just below the membrane of the egg’s surface. I knew that this mass of eyes would provide endless fascination throughout the summer.

To this day, recalling the process of development from larvae to tadpole, to fully developed miniature frog, is one of my favorite memories: watching their heads, bellies, and tails become smaller as the hind-legs formed under the skin, popping out one at a time. Then, watching as the tiny front legs emerged, each with five perfect fingers. Invariably all four tiny legs would develop, the tails would shrink, and within a matter of weeks, 100s of fully formed miniature Oregon Leopard frogs would emerge from their eggs and dance around on the murky water, search for an escape route, and then disappear into the clear running water over the next few days.

The same process would be observed in rapt fascination on our front porch via rescued tadpoles, which were scooped up from summer’s drying ditches into Mom’s enamel washtub. Releasing them into the creek that ran beside our house was utterly joyous for me. The fact that 95% would be food for whatever predators favored them never crossed my mind. Obviously, many survived, since there was never a summer night without a chorus to serenade us.

The Meadow was the region on the other side of the fence line, and was the transition area from cultivated field to river. This was a magical place. I recall the first time I discovered a fungus growing on the side of a tree; a huge glowing-orange semicircle; fleshy and utterly mysterious. I squatted in front of it for a good long time, simply taking in the wonder of it. Filled with wild Oregon native plants, ferns, nettles, wild peppermint, butterflies, bees, and ubiquitous blackberries, The Meadow was a wonderland. It led directly to several access points to the Willamina River that bordered our property. Although our neighbors, the Hamilton’s, had the best swimming hole, which all of the kids within bicycling range used throughout the summer, ours was private, quiet, shady, and wild; the perfect summer escape, for I was one of those kids who, with perfectly adequate social skills and, for the most part, enjoying the company of others, sought out and cherished the times when I could be by myself.

My parents did not believe in over-supervising, and as a result, I was pretty much free to run down the lane any time my heart took a hankering for some freedom and solitude. Or to draw and create romantic graphic novels before they even had that name.

What a marvel that is today with most children having their days booked solid throughout the school year, and most of the summer. I consider it the saving grace of my childhood.