by Rev Walt
The small boy had a smile that was as wide as the river that ran north of town. A gentle spring breeze whisked his brown hair about his face and his eyes sparkled in the morning sun. Freckles danced across his nose in a dervish of youthful candor. He was lean, but not thin and held that certain charm that radiates energy from the depths of a young man’s spirit.
His best friend was the river. The river understood him and no matter what was happening in the world around him, the river kept on giving. In truth, the river was far more than a friend. He felt much closer to the life and presence of the river than he did his own parents. The river was his teacher, his mentor, his caretaker and the protector of his essence. He could stare into the cool water and see a reflection that told him not who he was, but who he could be.
He had a favorite place along the bank where a cluster of birch trees gathered, roots extended to drink the fresh water. Those same roots formed a niche where he could lay, nestled in comfort. He often took a nap there, drifting off to sleep amidst the murmurs of the branches at the birches conversed with one another in the wind and the sounds of the water gently lapping against the bank. The sun would poke it’s head out between the branches as the trees swayed creating an atmosphere that chased the world away and allowed his dreams to wash over him.
The boy would hunt along the riverbank for treasures: bottle caps, string, mudpuppies, trinkets, and what-nots of sunken boats and lost dreams. Every time he walked the bank, the mud squishing between the toes of his bare feet, he would find something new, something to collect, something to add to his treasures, something to be grateful for. The river was always ready to provide something to enrich his spirit and give substance to his dreams. He often sat on the sunny bank watching the water flow past, tickling the rocks beneath, and wonder about the possibilities ahead of him. The river was endless. It was timeless. It would always bring him treasures. He loved the river. He understood the river just as the river understood him.
What he did not understand was people. People were confusing and often very demanding, quite unlike his friend the river. They took and did not give back. They did not comprehend the concept of endless giving and hidden treasures. They were not interested in what the river had to offer. The boy yearned to be like the river. He learned about life from the river. He set his life course to give to people as the river had given to him. He chose to be endless. He chose to be timeless. He chose the path of the river.
In a shoe box, he kept his collected treasures. That shoebox was in his hands today as he walked down Main Street. His mother had given him the box for his collection which included items not only from the river but from his home and excursions into the countryside. There were the tin pilot’s wings he had sent off for using cereal box tops. There was a picture that someone had been taken of him as a baby, sitting in the kitchen sink as him mother bathed him. He found the photo to be embarrassing but a treasure never-the-less. There was a mussel shell and a stale three-day old oatmeal cookie that he had purloined from his mother’s baking rack. Underneath the Roger Marris baseball card with bent corners was the quarter that he had received for the tooth he had lost two weeks before. There was the whistle carved from an unknown wood that he had dug up one day from the bank, and beside it was an old straight razor that he had found in a deserted cabin in the woods. A colorful rock, polished bright by the flowing waters of the river, lay wrapped in a piece of cotton within a little cardboard jewelry box. A pencil, a bent nail, a pair of rusty scissors and a plastic diamond ring rounded out his collection. All these things took up very little space in his box. Yes, he was very lucky indeed. He had the wealth of the world and he was ready to share that wealth with others like his friend the river.
It was Spring when he marched up the street, determined to follow his passion. Grass was turning green and flowers had started to poke their petals into the air. The air was fresh; clean with the newness of Spring. The first person that he met was Jack, a neighbor’s boy who knew nothing of treasures. The boy thought to himself and reached into the box. He pulled forth the baseball card and gave it to Jack with little flair. Jack looked at him like it was Christmas Day. His eyes lit up and he hugged the little card to his chest. Then, without a word, Jack ran back up the street holding the card in the air and sharing it with everyone who would stop and look. “This could be fun,” the boy thought to himself. It was no wonder that the river enjoyed giving so very much.
Tiny Donna, the Anderson’s youngest, approached him bashfully, eyes staring wide at the box. She said nothing and the boy looked down at her considering the contents that he carried. He reached into the box, pulled out the wooden whistle, and gave it to her. Donna giggled and flashed him a grateful smile then turned, whistling her way back up the street much to the chagrin of the adults nearby who were annoyed with the shrill noise.
The boy turned and saw his father step out from the barber’s shop, wearing his military uniform. Without a second thought he pulled the tin wings from the box. His father had a beautiful uniform, but no medals. The boy had often held the wings in his hand and dreamed of a day that he might learn to fly, just like his dad. His father had told him that it was foolish nonsense. And the boy believed him, for the man was his father and should know about such things. So the boy gave his dad his wings and his dreams which his father accepted and put away in a coat pocket. They would never find their way to his to his uniform coat. A certain sadness found its way into the boy’s mind. His dreams were important to him. Did his father not see that? Could his father not understand the full nature of the gift and the cost to the boy? The boy pondered in silence and then understood that it was a gift. The river gave without judgment. He must learn to do the same. The joy was in the giving, not in what the gift was used for. His father stepped smartly down the street with nary a wave goodbye.
Time has a funny way of passing without much notice when we are focused on a purpose. The Summer sun was full of warmth and wonder as the young man felt a touch on his shoulder and glanced back. It was Karen Bowers. She was so very beautiful. Karen was by far the most attractive girl in school with her long red hair and her deep green eyes. She had never noticed him before. Why did she bother now? Ahhh… he had treasures to share. He knew just the thing for her. He pulled out the small box that held the polished rock wrapped in cloth and gently placed it in her hand and then waited patiently to experience her gratitude for this most wonderful of treasures. With simple thanks she walked away. He watched as she met up with Stephanie Davis down the street. She showed Stephanie the rock and they both giggled. Then she dropped the rock in the dust and buried it in the ground with the sole of her shoe, threw the cotton over her shoulder and placed her chewed gum in the box before she put it into her pocket. They giggled again and walked away. The boy suddenly felt that this project was becoming less gratifying. How did the river ever manage to keep it up? The young man was always grateful for the treasures that he received. Why were other people so different?
He saw his mother coming from the courthouse and ran to her. She inflicted a forced hug which he returned with vigor. She had never been overly affectionate but it never prevented him from responding, hoping that she might return his affection or at least acknowledge his desire for her attention. He reached into the box for the ring that he had been saving to give her, but she saw the contents of his box and exclaimed “I have been looking everywhere for that picture,” and snatched it from the box. He tried to retrieve it but was too slow. “You shouldn’t take things that belong to others, young man,” she called as she strolled away showing the picture to everyone she met whether they wanted to see it or not. Could she not see that she had taken not only his treasure, but his dignity as well? Mr. and Mrs. Childress, out for their mid-morning strolled, guffawed loudly at the picture when his mother proffered it. The young man lowered his head and shuffled dust into the air with his feet as he headed back up the street.
Word had spread quickly that he was giving away treasures. People he knew as well as people he did not know came up to him in search of a morsel of his life. Sometimes they were grateful and other times they left in disgust, unable to glean anything of value. Why could they not understand that each of these gifts represented a precious moment in his life?
He gave the razor to Mr. Sheller, the tailor and Tommy Travis took the mussel shell. Nobody wanted the bent nail, but Carl Goodard took the rusty scissors for grooming his dog, Potter. Amanda Ferrill promised her undying affection for the cookie and then shared it with Bobby Johnson on a park bench by the gazebo. While watching Amanda and Bobby, the boy accidentally bumped into Samantha Collins. Feeling guilty, he gave her the quarter. She took the quarter and walked away but kept coming back after that asking if he had any more money. He gave her a few pennies from his pocket that he had been saving for some candy.
He gave the pencil to Selah Grant, his soulmate in poetry and a lover of Shakespeare. He hoped that she would find time to write for she was very good with her words. The ring went to Doris Gladstone who immediately traded it for one of Janis Taylor’s hair ribbons.
When Elizabeth Gardener came up to him, his heart skipped a beat. She had the brightest smile of anyone he knew. She walked with him for a while and they talked. He told her about the river. He told her about life and how each treasure in his box was a precious moment to be shared. He held her hand as they walked, and he felt the Autumn sun on his back and a cool breeze touch his brow. He smiled as the dry wind tossed Elizbeth’s hair about. She was as lovely as they came, with a heart of gold and a precious spirit. He knew that he must give her a gift though she had asked for none. Reaching into his box he realized that it was empty. There were no more treasures. He had given them all away. How could that be? The river never ran out of treasures. He was like the river, endless, ever-flowing, ever-filling, ever-giving. He paused and then offered Elizabeth the shoe box that had contained his treasures and dreams, the heart that held his soul. She accepted with it gratitude and continued to walk with him for a way.
The wind grew cold. When had Winter come? He looked down at his shoes, ragged and dusty. His clothes hung loose about him as if they had been bought for a younger man. He stared at his empty hands, wrinkled and mottled. He seemed to shuffle now, rather than walk, kicking up little tufts of dust that slowly settled around him. Where had it all gone? He turned around to stare down the empty street. Where had all the people gone? He was alone; alone and so very tired. He thought back with affection on the people who had appreciated his treasures. He pushed to the back corners of his mind the memories of the people who had shown little appreciation for what he had given. He chose to see the world as it could be, rather than the way that it was. He reflected on his walk with Elizabeth. He ran the seasons of his life through his mind and smiled, a smile bigger than the river that ran north of town.
Empty handed, he slowly made his way back up the street to the north end of town. It was time. It was time to close the circle on all that was and had been. The river had always been his best friend, never leaving his side and always offering up its treasures. It had never taken anything from him but his love and appreciation. The river had given him far more than trinkets and what-nots. It had given him purpose. It had given him life. How fitting it was that they share this last precious moment. He carefully made his way to rest in the crook of the roots of the birches. Yes, this had always been his favorite spot, where he could listen to the trees as they whispered to each other and the sound of the water as it lapped against the bank. This was the place where dreams were born, and the world was washed away. This was the place that life was complete, and rest could finally come. This was the moment the pain of age succumbed, and his dreams became his reality. He smiled one last smile and drifted into peace.
