Ripples in Time

On Saturday morning, my husband suggests we go to an out-of-the-way farmer’s market. We get there before they open, but he says “there are things to look at” and we continue down the road. I smile and nod. I’m along for the ride.

He points out a trap shooting place where he went as a kid and reminds me of the restaurant that burned to the ground. Several miles later we pull in to a conservation area where he used to fish.

“We came here even in winter because the water was always open.”

I ask, “Why didn’t it ice over?”

“They have bubblers,” he tells me. “You’ll see.

We park and walk down a gravel road along the “ditches” as the signs call them. He gestures to a row of wooden posts sticking out of the water.

“There were docks on those where we could stand and fish on all sides.”

Bubblers, like tiny fountains, send rings of ripples out around them. “See?” He points.

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We come to a patch of soft ground and spot paw prints.

“Looks like a big dog,” he says.

“Or a cougar,” I guess.

Another set of prints is clearly a racoon.

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He spots a fish making its own set of smaller ripples at the surface, but it’s the only one he sees. No one is here fishing on a Saturday morning, a sure sign that the catfish and crappie are gone. Further on, the ditches open into the Illinois River, where Asian Carp have taken over, dangerously lowering the native species.

A concrete boat ramp sits partially out of the water, skewed at an angle.

“I think this is where we used to launch our boat.”

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As we walk back, he kicks the gravel. “We used to find arrow heads along here, but they’ve probably built this road up with trucks of gravel several times since then.”

As he leans over to point to a tiny frog, it takes off with a powerful foot-long leap into the weeds.

We pull out and head down the road. Looking back, he says, “I must have fished here a hundred times, even though it’s a long drive.”

My childhood home is a city, hours away, so I don’t often run across people and places that bring back those early memories. The manmade landscape has changed many times over in urban renewal. I tend to reminisce about people, their words and how they felt.

His stories are activities: a neighborhood wiffle golf ball tournament, playing baseball where the library is now, and burying treasure in a friend’s backyard. The locations surround us as we live mere miles from where he grew up.

My recollections are moments pinned to a timeline of my life, emotional events that shaped me, as the lead, and the other roles in my story. There are moments of precious friendship, heartbreak, grief, joy, and loss, each one complete with characters and plot, even if the setting’s space is a little fuzzy.

His stories are fixed in place, literally the locations where they occurred. Each adventure is a spot on a map of his childhood, with episodes reoccurring to him as we drive past them in the present.

Our memories of our time together are parallel. He knows when the furnace was put in, when the trees were planted, when our daughters’ cars might need service, even though they live in different states. Mine is a memory of important events: first declarations of love, our daughters’ births and milestones, vacations, graduations, life lessons. He can find spots visited only once. I can find items others have lost in the house. Together we keep the structure of our home and lives in place.

The memories link like the water to the river, endless ripples flowing on.

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29 thoughts on “Ripples in Time

      1. Ohhhh! That’s interesting! Keeps it from getting stagnant, I imagine. Our local dog park has water thats stagnant in spots, and can get a bit rank. Like this morning, when Burger jumped in to chase some ducks. Ugh. Tried to stop him but it was too late. The ducks are fine, but Burger smells like a swamp lol

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  1. The places down your husband’s memory lane and your remembrances of milestones and the exact location of things in your house perfectly balance the vehicle of your life. The metaphor runs like a river in your story. interesting.

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  2. Men and women are so different in what matters and what deserves their brain space.I enjoyed how you compare his stories and recollections to yours.’Together we keep the structure of our home and lives in place.-this is so true in marriages that last!

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  3. I like this reflective piece. It had that “do you see the forest or the trees” vibe. One view a complement to the other and even a little undertone that you don’t quite understand each other in that way, but you accept that it is so. One fills the gap in the other.

    Funny note…in my area where I grew up “bubbler” as a drinking water fountain. So my default image was that and no the under water aerating fountain. LOL

    Favorite: My recollections are moments pinned to a timeline of my life,

    FYI: you had some adverbs you didn’t need – clearly, dangerously, partially, literally. Also close proximity repeats of memory, memories, moments, and gravel.

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  4. I love the contrast of the memories – place vs event, activity vs feeling – and how that connects to the ways in which you remember ongoing things like anniversaries and car maintenance.

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  5. I, like you, have different ways of remembering, a song, a verse, a name, a smell or a taste. But the memories that your husband shares with you are similar to the one’s mine shares with me. I always feel privileged, as if he wishes me to be part of his life long before I was. Now we have moved back to his roots it happens more often. You took me along for the ride and had me looking for arrow heads.

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