continued I would stay there, watching the river float by, till the chimes at the Episcopal Church rant matins and I slowly rode home for supper.
It all washed over me again yesterday while I ate my sandwich by the river.
I shared the park with a couple families of Canada geese. They startled me, waddling out of the water, but I didn’t move. The goslings came first; three, then another, then another. I saw the heads of the parents before I saw them. Craning, searching, watching.
The goslings were precious. They would totter a few feet, plucking out the sparse grass, and then lie down for a bit. Then up again, grazing, intent on the surface of the ground. The parents, heads high, took turns eating. An occasional seagull would come close to the goslings, and pay the price in threats and hisses.
I could have stayed all day. It seemed I was drinking something deep, something profound, but I couldn’t quite put words to it. Yet, I didn’t need to put words to it. My soul was drinking deep, and that was enough.
If I could see that babysitter again, I think I’d say, “No thank you. I don’t think I’d like that kind of candy. I’d like something different.”
Yes, I pick something different.
Karen Abbott is a published author and the mother of four girls, raised at Abbott Farms in Baldwinsville. She enjoys quilting, teaching and home economics.