“A man’s real possession is his memory.
in nothing else is he rich…”
Alexander Smith
Remember those tall log pole pine trees beside our
cabins in The Redwoods in Yosemite, the flowing
south fork of the Merced River just down the road
where we pitched our beach chairs on the sand near
the water’s edge, and watched our kids swimming
in the cold pool formed by the river? Remember the
Chilnualna Falls, with its flowing ribbons of white
and blue falling over pied boulders of granite near
the place where I got you stranded on a steep hill
when the trail ran out? Remember the Wawona
swinging bridge that hung over the river where we
slid down the smooth rock face to the pool below,
and our hike through wildflowers in the meadows
on the trail to the bridge. Remember the warmth of
the sun on our backs as we relaxed under the laced
shade of trees, talking of simple things, and reading
books? Remember the balmy nights as we sat on the
cabin porch under bashful stars peeking through
redwood trees, and the eerie sounds of night birds,
and things that went bump in the night? Remember
our laughter and gentle political discussions, shinny
stars that looked like tiny specs in the heaven’s
black carpet, and the huge orange moon that peeked
out at us from between the pine trees as we sat in
the dark of the night?
Those idle hours of joy are but fading memories
now, now that we are older and spend our time in
the summertime on our porch, drinking coffee and
munching on your homemade cookies; and
inside our library during the warm nights watching
our Agatha mysteries on TV, and nodding off in our
chairs.
Where did all the time go as we went on our many
vacations to Yosemite, swam in small streams and
the Merced River, and in the deep blue ponds it
formed, rambled along deer trails next to small blue
rills, raised our children, built our home, created
herb and vegetable gardens, and planted fruit trees?
Time has vanished too quickly, and old age is tak-
ing us over. And now winter is here again, and the
pouring down rain batters our old farmhouse, while
the raucous din of thunder roars into our library, and
bright flashes of lightening flit across the ceiling.
We are finding we are mere shadows of our former
selves, but we are finding a mysterious solace as we
remember our memories of all those wonderful
places in Yosemite that we visited when we were
young.
James, a retired Professor and octogenarian earned his doctorate from BYU, and his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University, SLO. He is a Best of Web nominee and three time Pushcart nominee and has had four poetry books “The Silent Pond,” (2012), “Ancient Rhythms,” (2014), “LIGHT,” (2016), and “Solace Between the Lines,” (2019), over 1560 poems, five novels and 35 short stories published worldwide in over 250 publications.
Featured image courtesy Boston Public Library.
