The FFO

When I was very little, my mother took us to Hematite Lake. It’s really more of a giant pond and is located at Land Between the Lakes. There is a nature trail around the lake, and some places to have a picnic lunch next to a stream. There is also a little waterfall area and some cement stepping stones that allow you to walk across the waterfall. When I was very little, I remember standing on those blocks and being terrified that I wasn’t going to make it to the next block. They were very, very far apart. And the water was dark and murky and bound to be over my head. I don’t remember receiving words of encouragement or words that would soothe my fears. But I’m sure that I got them. Though with my family, that’s not always the case. I could have just as easily been told that I’d better do my best to make it across because there was a sea monster that lived in the water and would come to eat my legs if I fell in. It’s really a crap shoot in the Walker house when it comes to negating childish fears. I do remember stretching my leg out as far as it could go and not making it. My leg plunging into the water and then scrambling onto the next block in abject terror. The rest of the walk is a blur, I’m sure blocked from memory because the degree of terror.

When we moved back to Cadiz when I was in the 4th grade, my mom took us back to Hematite again. And my first comment was, when did they add more blocks to the walk way. My mother looked at me, puzzled, and replied that there were no more blocks than there’d ever been. And I experienced my first moment of shifted perceptions. As a child, I knew those blocks were at least 3 feet across. I had to really jump to get across. Yet as a 10 year old, the blocks appeared to only be 6 inches apart. 6 inches – no way!

This weekend, as we were touring Land Between the Lakes to offer Franklin the opportunity to drive with his shiny new permit. And we returned to Hematite Lake. It was the first time that my children had gone to the lake as well. Elijah was immediately enamored of the stepping stones. Really, anyone with just the tiniest bit of a child still in them enjoys walking across. And because they are somewhat oddly space, no matter how long you’ve been walking, you have to pause in the middle to sort of regain your balance / equilibrium / gate. I’ve never crossed that I didn’t think that it was possible for me to lose my balance and fall in the water – which is still as murky as ever. And I took Isaiah, how must now be about the same size that I was the first time that I went to the lake and tried to cross the stones. Isaiah, who even at the age of 3 is very practical, looked at the stepping stones and though he wanted to cross, merely shook his head at me when I asked if he wanted to go, and then raised his hands for a lift. And I, afraid that I would fall in myself and a grand recreator of my past for my children, refused to give it. Instead, together, we baby stepped across. He’d stick his leg up and out as far as he could, and then sort of lean into it and tip himself over onto the next stone. All the while he maintained a death grip on my fingers.

There is a quiet, subtle joy in moments like that. Getting to see first hand what you yourself must have experienced, but can’t really truly recall. It gives you a feeling of being god like – seeing life through time and in the instant all at once. And you can’t help but smile and try to remember what it was like this time – so that you will remember it always. A moment like that makes me grateful for cameras (still and video). And a moment like that makes me wish we had neither – because I want to keep it precious on my own – but who are we kidding. Those memories get lost and fall to the wayside. And in 20 years, I will look back in confusion as the boys recount some memory they have in common that somehow shaped their young lives – but to me was just another day. And that saddens me – but seems to be rite of passage in itself – because I’ve done it often enough to my own mother. And sat back in dazed wonder as my brother and sister told a story from their point of view and wondered where they were because that’s not how I remember it at all. But it’s o.k. and it’s how it should be.

And as we made our way off of the stones, I told my dad that I couldn’t bring him back for about 8 more years so that he, too, would ask when they had added the extra stones. (click title for link to video)