After a long, heavy rain, when the ditches running along the sides of the road become homes for rushing runoff water, the best possible thing to do is to find a toy boat (make one if necessary) and toss into the current. Entertainment will follow.
Daniel did just that. As soon as the storm passed and the June sun came back out to resume baking the earth below in order to return it to its previously parched state, Daniel dug through his toy box and found the raft that his father had made him. “Digging” is a generous way to refer to Daniel’s search through his toy box. At age 8, his choices were relatively limited as the ‘lean times’ were in full swing. His mother often used this term when her grocery visits would net two or three fewer bags of groceries and be bereft of name brands.
Next to his baseball glove, the raft was his favorite toy. It carried with it a distant memory of a father he wished he’d been able to know. A father whom he knew loved him, but was unable to stand up beneath the weight of his ‘sickness’ (Another Mom term). He’d often heard the word, ‘cancer’ thrown around in the days leading up to his father’s passing, but still did not have a complete grasp of what it meant. The raft was simple in its construction and functionality. When the garden next to the trailer had proven to be a futile venture, his father had taken one of the pieces of wood used to border the soil and cut off an eight inch piece. He then drilled a small hole halfway through the piece and fitted a small dowel rod into, securing it with glue. The sail was a piece of an old work shirt that his father no longer wore, as he had been fired from the garage he worked at upon becoming sick. The sail was cut from the part of his old shirt with his name embroidered on the breast and fixed to the dowel rod with some old string from their junk drawer in the kitchen.
“Call it the S.S. Henry,” his father joked, handing him the finished product. His smile was weak and his hair was gone, but he still held tight to his sense of humor.
Two days later Henry died.
Daniel exited the park through the main entrance, a driveway built up over the ditch and fashioned with a cement pipe about a foot in diameter to allow water to flow through without overtaking the driveway in situations like these. He turned right and headed uphill wanting to give the raft enough time to pick up speed before slipping into the drain pipe below the driveway and out the other side.
He squatted next to the water’s edge and set the raft into the water carefully, holding it in place for a few seconds as if to acclimate it to its sudden change in surroundings. His eyes closed slowly and he exhaled. Letting go of the raft was always a an unnerving proposition for him, but the risk never seemed to outweigh the reward. He loosened his grip and let the water take the S.S. Henry.
The next thing he knew was that he was running alongside the ditch and laughing hysterically has the raft bobbed and up and down in the current. He picked up enough speed to pass the raft and positioned himself on top of the driveway for an overhead view of the raft’s entrance into and exit from the drainage pipe. As it approached his excitement grew as he imagined himself hanging onto the dowel rod boom of the raft, hand on his forehead as he looked at the approaching darkness of the tunnel, and feeling the mist of the spray from the turbulent waters. He entered the tunnel and its darkness overcame him. It wasn’t fear, though. This was the joy of the unknown and the adventure associated with it.
As he emerged from his state of euphoric imagination, he prayed that his life would be like that when he grew up. He prayed that it would be one enormous adventure and that he could be the hero of it.
15 years later, his life would remind him of this experience and he would smile.
14 years later, his life would remind him of this journey and he would hang his head.