The grand river swelled into our yard in 93. Crawfish on the front porch.
A wood burning stove was the central heat in this old plantation home. Propane only on the most frigid of nights.
I hear people speak of this as suffering. I lived it, I loved it. Waking in the night to blow on the last embers that refused in the freeze to be put out, toss on a lil timber to get the fire going again. It gave me reason to wake to the coyotes singing their sorrows to the winds. Drifting back off to my world of dreams, ushered by the sounds of fire.....
Our home was the last on this dusty road to the grand river, although it was still a mile hike, my brother and I never let a sunny day go by without running to our freedom.
The pebbles in the river glistened like jewels, reflecting my eyes a million times.
Running in the corn all day, going to the river, or to play in the ponds and catch frogs in one of the ponds that surrounded the couple mile radius of our home, the rule was, in sight by dusk, or when you heard Dad whistle, My god how did we survive?!?
We must stop trying to protect people from themselves. Tragedy happens. But not often, thats why it is called tragedy not commonplace. I was most free on the farm there near the river, bringing home buckets of clay from river bottom to fashion and bake. Finding bones and imagining them to be the leftovers of the giants that once walked the earth.
This freedom, I want for my children, not gates and basements and straps, and choke chains.
They must be free, they must feel it for a time, to ever long for it in adulthood. Longing for freedom. We must create a generation of children that long for that which they have felt. That which they want to share with the world. Hair blowing in the wind, arms and legs scratched by the husks of corn, loving every blood drawing touch. For it is in this place that discoveries are made.