The Springton Reservoir: A Childhood Treasure Chest.

The woods behind my house are splintered with my memories. They swipe across my mind like the overgrown branches swipe cross my cheek as I walk the path again. Old bottles we thought were antiques left by old pioneers and fisherman from the early 20th century. Scanning the piles of leaves and broken down trees for left antlers after falling off adult deer that roamed behind our house at dusk and dawn. We found old bones and pieces of more bones from dead animals either fighting to their death or fading away from old age and disease. I can recall, in the dim places of my memories, the enormous nests of Canadian Geese, the towering rock we would climb on like it was a mountain range high, the still water with Blue Gill and Bass we hoped to catch. Winter was serene. Soft, like a dusting of peace, there was snow everywhere. Crunching broke the silence, but we still knew we were alone. The ice clinked like a song when pierced by our tossed rocks, and when it was thick enough, we would be brave, and careless, riding our bikes across the lake believing it was firm enough to hold our middle-school selves...or at least we hoped. Tuned to the sounds around us, our ears were sharp and alert, ready for a display, a sliver of God’s goodness and beauty. We waited and anticipated, until all of nature would birth for us a moment from the bowels of the spiritual world. Inevitably, it would come, like turning the corner at just the right time.

Like a stroke of a brush, these sights, sounds and stories have painted the colors of my story and the framed snapshots of a childhood preserved. Closing my eyes, I can go back in a moment. Walking those paths: I am back in elementary school, middle school, high school, visits home from college, and in from North Carolina over Christmas break. My blood runs rich with these recollections.

My thoughts will begin to turn, and with ache and longing, I desire to sketch this picture for everyone, to walk those paths in their own histories and to have built the same forts in their younger years. In many ways, it is quite sweet and even sacred. For no one really knows except Kim, Mark, Tim and me...we share the sights, sounds, colors, treasures, and stirring that is brought to the surface when any one of us wanders down with the boys, or alone...and faintly, in our thoughts, like a distant echo, we hear the bell ringing again, and mom calling us home for dinner.