The "Canal"

The word canal doesn't sound like much when I say it now, but in my boyhood it was like a magic incantation.  Whenever in planning our days and deciding among the realistic options we had, the word "canal" would slip in, it was on another level.  "Canal" represented fun and adventure and unusual possibilities like floating our scrap-lumber ships with their nail  gunneries, tied to a long string so they wouldn't escape; or hastily crafted milkweed-pod canoes with toothpick or matchstick oars, which we would try to sink with large rocks.  Sometimes we would grab a long willow stick and pretend like we were fishing for record trout as we harvested chunks of moss and seaweed or large leaves as they floated by.  Add a little danger in the mixture and the undeniable attraction of being forbidden, and it is no wonder our mothers knew right where to find us if we were out of sight. 

We thought they (our mothers) had some secret technique of spying on us that we could never figure out.  Super-telescopic eyes?  Clairvoyance?   We didn't know how, but they always knew we were there...we always got caught red-handed (or wet-handed).  The truth is, even though it was not a large canal (probably 12-15 feet wide and 30-36 inches deep), it was dangerous.  The flow was powerful enough to knock a young person's feet out from under them, and scarcely a summer passed that we did not hear or read about a child that had drowned or nearly so in those very waters.  The parental concern was not wasted.

Nevertheless, there was a day (spoiler alert: some of you have heard this story, this is for those who may have missed it or were not paying attention:-)) when I managed to elude the secret spy method with a neighbor a couple of years older than me, Roger Lee. I think this was the summer before my kindergarten year. He was not really a friend or very often a playmate, as he was at times kind of a bully; but on this glorious summer morn we were off on an expedition. We decided it was a great day for moss-fishing, as there seemed an unusual number of larger than normal chunks floating by.  We selected our willow poles and sat on an abutment to the wooden bridge that crossed at this point.

Things went very well, and we were having a great time when the biggest chunk of moss I'd ever seen was coming toward us.  It was clear it would be beyond my normal reach without a longer willow, but there was no time.  In one  of those failures of discretion that snap-judgments often are, I decided that if I stood with one foot firmly grounded and one over the edge, I could stretch out far enough to harvest that beauty.

Well, of course, the next thing I know I am floating helplessly...my momentum had thrust me near the middle.  In a miracle that I considered then and since my first evidence that I had a Heavenly Parent interested in my survival as much as my earthly parents, I was prompted to throw my hands up, and they reached the deck of the bridge. I was strong enough and motivated enough to hold on , but not to  pull my self up.  

I hollered for help from my neighbor, himself only about seven.  He danced momentarily along the shore, not sure what to do, but to his everlasting credit he followed what must have been a prompting and became a hero to me that day.  He completely disrobed, then eased himself down in the water, holding onto the bridge.  He was enough taller and stronger that his feet reached the bottom, and holding  on to the bridge, hand over hand he worked himself to where I was.  I gradually changed my hand-hold, one at a time, until my arms were wrapped around his chest,  and he worked us both back to the shore.  

I was thoroughly soaked, and his clothes were completely dry, but we both agreed it would be a good idea if we went to a collection of tree stumps and branches that formed a pile a few hundred feet away and sorted out our options.  We decided it would be a good idea f we stayed there until I dried out.  We further determined it would be better if neither of us spoke of this event, the result of our disobedience.  

I don't know when, if ever, Roger ever revealed his brave act to his parents, as avoiding the consequences of our disobedience was our primary concern.  For my part, it came up inadvertently in a conversation around the dinner table many years later when I was about ten.  I blurted out something, I think, about drying out on the log pile.  Further interrogation led to a full confession.  There was momentary shock, then gratitude.  I think the five years softened the effect a little.  I won't say (because it would not be truthful) that I never went near the canal again; but I will say this was the first time I was conscious of someone beyond my view watching over me, and it gave me great comfort.