1816 Honey Run Road almost became a song…or a rap, or something. One day, mom wanted Courtney, Marisa and me to learn our phone number and address (I suppose because the probability of getting lost at the Silver Dollar Fairground was quite high.) So she chanted (I realize that this is off-topic and more a memory of mom, but hang tough- I’ll right this ship) “1816 Ho-ney Run Road!”. It almost sounded like a chant, designed to inspire a crowd at a football game, or something. Something. Anyway…
1816 Honey Run Road was where I began my life (as far as I’m concerned.) Here, we lived in the mountain(s). I remember the sound of Dad’s tractor, moving up and down the dirt road behind our house, the sound of his chainsaw in the distance, and him bathing in the pond behind our house. I also remember how scary the Harwood’s light was, across the street. It was so bright, it could have been a very scary star.
We spent many a day, walking down to the Covered Bridge (soooo dangerous, cars and all), where we’d have to walk down a steep embankment to get to the water. At one time, you could get to the water through several different paths. I don’t think that it’s as easy any more. I know there were times that, in my bare feet, I’d walk to the bridge and gingerly feel my way to the water’s edge, doing my best to avoid the thorns and thistles that my feet could pick up. But I digress. Again.
As a family we’d sit at the water’s edge and dad would swim out to The Rock, where he’d tease and call for us to swim to him. He wouldn’t let us down, he’d tell us. Some of us contend that there were 10 children, but that, one fateful day, dad wasn’t completely on his game. Good kid, I’m sure. Probably went to that Big Steel Bridge in the Sky. But anyway, we’d swim out to the rock and dad would grab us and pull us up. Courtney was really good at swimming. But for me, it was a pretty difficult thing to attempt. The water was cold, dad seemed to be 1/2 a mile away, and frankly the sand under my feet felt good. I didn’t need to go out to the rock.
Somewhere in the middle of swimming to dad’s rock, getting cut up by the sharp edges that jetted out of it while dad pulled me up- I learned to swim. I might mean “doggie-paddle.” Whatever. I learned how to float in water that I couldn’t stand in.
Once we’d started to enjoy the feeling of being up on that rock, Dad would invariably toss us back in. It scared some of us. A lot.
I learned a big lesson from this. Sometimes, in the “swim” of life, we must be called out to doggie-paddle to “The Rock”, where we will probably be “cut” as we’re pulled up, only “to” be tossed in.
I guess it’s not really a lesson, this time. Just a fun memory of learning to swim with dad.