Shady Brook and Deeper Waters

If God knows my heart, can see my soul, knows my thoughts, can see and feel every nuance of my body, I don't understand why we have to cover it all up with a lot of clothes when we go to church.

I think my father was a richer man for his relationship with Goldie Ricks. I think I'm poorer for not knowing exactly what the relationship was.

Each person comes and goes quietly; each has a personality that we do not experience. Each has a past untold and a future unseen. Each takes a brief respite from their journey on our front porch.

She starts mixing in a little milk. She works the mixture with fingers long accustomed to a familiar kitchen ritual. She adds more milk until it's just enough (whatever that is), sprinkles flour on the oil cloth top and kneads the dough until it becomes a smooth skinned, springy blob, lightly floured on the outside.

When herring are running, we eat fish several times. We clean the fish and extract the delicate roe, to be eaten separately, sometimes mixed with hen eggs. It's a real treat. The herrings have a lot of small bones and we always have fried corn bread with the meal. If a bone gets stuck in your throat, you take a bite of cornbread, chew and swallow. That generally clears up stuck bones. It happens fairly frequently and no one is greatly concerned.

When I am stressed by day to day pressures, I retreat to that quiet place of my childhood, where my spirit can rest and be refreshed. My thoughts return to Shady Brook, a homemade, flat bottomed boat, Cypress trees, and soft waters. I am home.