Fisherman on the Juniata River

“Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains.” - Henry David Thoreau.

My parents hosted a family gathering on this day, to celebrate the birthdays and anniversaries occurring in October. Participants ranged in age from 8 to 83. Tasty snacks were consumed and some hilarity ensued. An especially funny moment occurred when my totally innocent-looking little Methodist mother (a kind and rather mild-mannered Christian woman by all other accounts) lobbed a half-gallon box of ice cream at my unsuspecting second-oldest sister. Who dodged, but not quickly enough, apparently. OK, so my mother SWEARS she didn't throw it on purpose, but someone did end up with ice cream on her jeans nonetheless.

My husband and I arrived bearing potato salad, our contribution to the feast. We left with two used microwaves, a bag of potatoes, a bag of apples, leftover pizza, pickled eggs, two thick slices of my mother's meatloaf, school photos of two of the grandkids, and anything else that we wanted that wasn't nailed down. That's how it is with family. I leave with more than I brought. Always. If I came to visit much more often, I fear I'd need to buy a bigger house.

My parents have always been under the (alas somewhat mistaken) impression that we never EAT unless they feed us. Personally. And so when I show up, they try to send all the food in the house along to ward off the otherwise inevitable starvation, which would surely break my mother's heart.

My parents live at the edge of the woods, surrounded by wildlife. We watched a family of deer go bounding across the clearing between the house and Lost Creek in mid-afternoon. And at dusk, a doe and fawn arrived at the edge of the yard, lingered in the shadows, and nibbled at the apples from one of my father's trees.

My husband and I stopped for just a few minutes along the Juniata River below Lewistown before our visit, and I shot a couple of pictures of the foliage and the peaceful fisherman we found there. I wondered what he thought of the colors. Did he recognize his place in time and space, noting the lovely foliage colors and feeling lucky, understanding that he had just become part of the painting that is autumn? Or was he merely thinking about how to outsmart the next big fish? His line whistled through the air. Back and front and back and front. Counting out the rhythm on a metronome. Ticking away the moments in neat, orderly fashion: one and two and one and two. Time passes, but eternity remains.

On our drive back home along the river once again, hours later, I thought about the rhythms of family, and of the seasons of the year. And how things change but how much they stay the same. The quiet, orderly rhythms of the metronome, one and two and one and two.

My husband and I chatted on our drive home in the darkness (for darkness falls now way too quickly, and soon will come the changing of the clocks to make it even worse). Recapping this day, making plans for the next one. Mostly talking about mundane things, for such is the substance of daily life. We will have the leftover meatloaf with baked potatoes when he gets home from his backpacking trip. Should I make a pie from the apples too? Or maybe an apple crisp? Which microwave should I take to work? Which one should we keep at home? Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in.

And then on to more philosophical things: how big my parents' grandkids are getting, perhaps one day fully grown with children of their own. How much of all of this will they remember? When they are old and gray, will they still remember the sound of the voice of a beloved grandmother or grandfather? I think of them, the grandchildren, as little boats navigating through the currents of time. And the thought leaves me misty, but hopeful. Do we see that we have all become part of the painting?

And then suddenly we are home, and we are back to the normal routines of unpacking the car and catching up on our shows and playing with the cat and getting ready for bed and planning for work tomorrow. But I think back on my day and I cherish its best parts. I hold them in my beating heart - one and two and one and two, these rhythms of time and memory and family and age-old custom - like a fisherman fishing on quiet waters. Time slips away, but eternity remains.

The soundtrack: Jim Croce, Time in a Bottle.