Trending
Last weekend my brother and I spent a relaxing time fishing on the Juniata River.
The weather wasn't the best for fishing, mostly hot and bright, but a frequent breeze kept things mostly pleasant, and enough river smallmouths attacked our lures to keep the day interesting.
We didn't land any monsters on that trip, but those hard-fighting Juniata bass of any size never disappoint. That's why I have long considered the Juniata River as one of my favorite places to fish. And that river has provided a lifetime of wonderful memories for me.
In fact, the oldest childhood memory I can recall involves my first visit to the Juniata, but not for any reason you might imagine.
It occurred about 69 years ago during the summer I was three years old, however, I remember many events of that day as if they happened last week.
My father was a highly skilled carpenter and cabinetmaker who would eventually own and operate his own business.
Back then, he often took on extra jobs as he worked toward his goal of being self-employed. A friend of his recruited him that summer to help remodel a small summer cottage along the banks of the Juniata River.
On one of those workdays, Dad brought Mom and I along to have a picnic with him.
We lived in the country with a 3-acre yard, so playing outside was pretty routine for me on any given day. But having a big river flowing literally past the front yard as was the situation at that cottage was beyond irresistible for an impetuous 3-year-old.
"Don't go near the river," was the stern order I received from both parents as soon as I stepped out of the car. I wonder how long they actually believed I would heed that directive?
I was the oldest of what would eventually become five kids in our family.
It was the 1950s after all and the peak of the "Baby Boom" generation, and Mom and Dad obviously did their part to contribute to the Boom.
Based on some of the experiences my mother related to me over the years, I often wondered why they didn't stop at one to two kids.
"You were so quick," she told me once. "If I took you to the store, I had to hold your hand all the time or you would be gone."
I was also fearless and liked to climb or crawl on or over anything. Even more, I loved to catch bugs or any crawly critter I happened to find.
I don't recall when I first heard the theory "easier to beg forgiveness rather than ask permission," but I'm sure that concept must have already dwelt in my 3-year-old mind.
I also don't recall how long it took me to go near the river that day but would bet it was quite soon. After all, there was a small wooden dock extending 10 feet or so into the river.
No true country boy could resist a setup like that. Mother must have monitored my escape because I remember her hovering over me and restraining me from a walk on the dock.
While we were there, I discovered a bucket with some crayfish in it tied to the dock. Of course, having never seen a crayfish before, I tried to grab one of those exotic critters from the bucket but got my fingers slapped for messing with another's property and was promptly escorted back to the cottage.
I don't recall how I amused myself the rest of the day, but I know my sole mission for that day was to take a walk on the little dock. When I finally made my move back to the river, I must have done so undetected because the next thing I remember is triumphantly standing on the end of the dock.
It was a short-lived triumph. The next thing I remember is being underwater, on my back. I had never been in water deeper than a bathtub before and certainly couldn't swim. I remember my little arms and legs instinctively paddling furiously. My eyes were open, and I vividly recall seeing the sunlight streaming into the surface of the water and the bright green summer leaves on the mountainside on the other side of the river.
I don't remember how long I was under water, but thankfully it couldn't have been too long.
The next thing I remember was one of the men holding me in his arms, safe and sound. I later learned that my mother noticed me just as I mounted the dock and watched me fall in. She couldn't swim and would have been pregnant with my sister who would be born that November.
Her screams alerted the men, one of whom ran into the river and scooped me up.
So my earliest childhood memory is nearly drowning at three years old. Ironically, almost having my life ended before it really began in the waterway that would be a source of much joy and fascination for nearly 70 years thereafter.
I know folks who were bitten by a dog as a young child who have a lifelong dread of dogs as a result. Maybe I was too young to grasp the gravity of a near-death experience or to experience any lingering psychological trauma from it.
In fact, I would be hard-pressed to recall any bad memories from the river.