By Regena Handy
Just below the abutments that once supported the Bob White Covered Bridge, an old log lies in the water. Though the two ends of the long ago fallen tree rest steadily in the river, the trunk weather-worn a silky smooth rises up, forming the perfect bench.
It is here after wading downstream that I perch, feet dangling in the ripples, and watch my husband and grandson. Sunlight filters through the varying shades of green leaves forming a tent over our heads, casting a million sparkles on the stream which glitters like the finest of diamonds. It is quiet; the sounds of the flowing water a barrier to noise from the outside world.
The scene is timeless, so perfect that it could have been staged. A grandfather teaches his little grandson to skip rocks across the river in a setting of breathtaking beauty. They bend over the water, searching through the ever changing reflection for the perfect stone. Every so often one is picked out, and they examine it, discuss its merits, if it is the right size or flat enough. They keep track of the number of times a stone skips over the glassy surface.
For a moment, I mull on all the generations before us who have spent time in this very spot. Did ancient tribes fish these waters or weary travelers stop for refreshment, I wonder. Certainly my own family has left foot tracks here — most certainly my uncles and aunts, as children. Not only are entertaining events plentiful but for nearby churches, sacred occasions, as well. Years ago my own baptism took place further upstream.
Even on this ninety degree day the Smith River, which heads just a few miles away on the mountainside, is icy cold. My mother was baptized in the river during a winter month. Pictures show ice at the edge of the banks. But it takes only a few minutes today for the water to become simply pleasantly chilly as we continue to wade downstream.
Our feet slide over rocks slickened by moss as tiny minnows wind around our ankles. Despite attempts to catch crawfish, those miniature lobster-like creatures, we meet with no success. They are faster than us, backing away and sliding under rocks, little pinchers waving in warning.
We watch them slither away and I glance at the grandson. I listen to his little boy chuckle at the creature’s antics. He looks at me and smiles — a sweet, happy, innocent grin. I smile back in contentment.
One perfect moment.
