Last Night
It is our last night at camp, and being late August, Idaho fire season is in full swing. The air is hazy
and we watch flames dance on a ridge like a celebration.
After dinner Cort plays vintage films on a small laptop DVD player he brought, and we watch some
of the earliest boatmen take on rapids in wooden boats and awkward gear. When asked why he
takes on such big water, one boatman answers, “This river will make you feel young.”
“We feel ten!” my eleven-year-olds shout, giggling.
Then the moonless dark becomes complete, and we move slowly to our beds in the sand—so
accustomed we are to taking cues for sleep and waking from the sun. We have adjusted, I suddenly
realize, to the perfect school-year bedtime routine. I laugh at my earlier doubts, and how I almost
traded this week with my sons so they would have more time to pick out the proper three-ring
binder.
As I listen in darkness to the river slipping by, a boy on either side, and know that sometimes I am
too hard on myself regarding motives. That our mountain home is born not only from over-
protectiveness, but also of a wish that my children will experience enough silence to hear their own
voices. Maybe I bring my kids to the river the way some families go to church with the hope that
what they learn there will give them confidence and strength in the current of their lives. With some
hope, that when they connect to something wild, they will also feel the pull of their own souls.
This is what the river teaches. That motherhood is not static. That sometimes love comes while you
sleep beneath the same stars, and sometimes when you remember to see from your child’s
perspective, and sometimes it comes when you watch him paddle uncertain water, when you see
him dig deep and not come up empty handed. Sometimes you get to love the way he almost looks
to make sure you’re watching, but then doesn’t.
Is that enough? Oh let me count the ways.
© 2007 Laura Stavoe
Back to River Writer
It is our last night at camp, and being late August, Idaho fire season is in full swing. The air is hazy
and we watch flames dance on a ridge like a celebration.
After dinner Cort plays vintage films on a small laptop DVD player he brought, and we watch some
of the earliest boatmen take on rapids in wooden boats and awkward gear. When asked why he
takes on such big water, one boatman answers, “This river will make you feel young.”
“We feel ten!” my eleven-year-olds shout, giggling.
Then the moonless dark becomes complete, and we move slowly to our beds in the sand—so
accustomed we are to taking cues for sleep and waking from the sun. We have adjusted, I suddenly
realize, to the perfect school-year bedtime routine. I laugh at my earlier doubts, and how I almost
traded this week with my sons so they would have more time to pick out the proper three-ring
binder.
As I listen in darkness to the river slipping by, a boy on either side, and know that sometimes I am
too hard on myself regarding motives. That our mountain home is born not only from over-
protectiveness, but also of a wish that my children will experience enough silence to hear their own
voices. Maybe I bring my kids to the river the way some families go to church with the hope that
what they learn there will give them confidence and strength in the current of their lives. With some
hope, that when they connect to something wild, they will also feel the pull of their own souls.
This is what the river teaches. That motherhood is not static. That sometimes love comes while you
sleep beneath the same stars, and sometimes when you remember to see from your child’s
perspective, and sometimes it comes when you watch him paddle uncertain water, when you see
him dig deep and not come up empty handed. Sometimes you get to love the way he almost looks
to make sure you’re watching, but then doesn’t.
Is that enough? Oh let me count the ways.
© 2007 Laura Stavoe
Back to River Writer
