A River Runs Through It

     I remembered several things today that I haven’t considered in a very long time.

     I was a manager for Kinney Shoe Corporation in Gadsden, Alabama, and responsible for a lease department in what used to be referred to as “Woolco;” (a competitor of K-Mart, and forerunner of Walmart). I remember doing the "Blue Light Specials," and how I'd wanted to spice them up for some time. And so a somewhat unique idea occurred to me. I dressed my young son, Steve, in a clown custom, and brought wheelbarrows full of tennis shoes to the center floor, and dumped them on a display table.

     I can’t remember whether we sold many or few, but it was great fun, and we created a memory together.

    Then again, there was the time my family and I traveled from Gadsden, to a nearby town; in order to fill in for a vacationing pastor. You see, I was both a shoe store manager and a minister. Things went quite well ‘til after the morning service ended, and we were ready to drive back home.

     Suddenly, my three year old daughter, Kimberly, picked up a small rock and put it up one nostril! I remember our frustration. After some doing, we managed to get it out; her nose no worse for wear.

    Then there was the ride back home. We were driving between two mountain ranges, one on each side of the road, when our car ran out of gas; in the proverbial “middle of no where.”  We had just passed a station, and I decided to get out and “hoof it.”

    To my dismay the “Mom and Pop” station was closed. But I managed to raise the owner, who lived on the property. Strangely, he didn’t want to sell me a gallon, even after I explained our dilemma. Eventually, however, he relented, and we were able to resume our journey home.

    Then there was the time I lived in Stafford County, Virginia. The snow had come down in droves that day, and since we lived in a mobile home park, we found ourselves irrevocably “snowed in.”  

      I debated what to do. Neither the city or county called “Stafford” was heavily populated, and I knew of no tires sales stores within several miles. I had considered getting snow tires, but had never “got a round tuit.”

 

      The only course available to me was, as in the previous illustration, "hoofing it." And hoof it, I did. Fredericksburg, the infamous Civil War town, was easily ten miles distance. Perhaps I could get snow chains there.

     I had walked about three miles when a car pulled over, and gave me a lift. I still don’t remember my return trip, (whether I walked, or hitched a ride). But I do remember the pride I felt, since I carried several more pounds back home with me. You guessed it… Snow Chains.

 

     But as I tromped into my little neighborhood, I realized that there was no longer a need for the chains. The snow had melted away; leaving plenty of hard, black asphalt beneath it.

     I had walked in the snow and cold all day, only to realize how pointless my efforts had been. And the chains didn’t fit my tires, anyway. Talk about frustration.

    Time would fail me to tell about the “dead body” covered in neoprene, lying next to the bay; a bum that turned out to be very much alive. The day I saw my wife, after six weeks of boot camp, and several weeks of technical school. She was pregnant with my first born, and wearing a red, white and blue blouse. (Funny, as I write this, I’m only now making the connection).

And the evangelist that kicked his leg in the air as he spoke, and who left me with my favorite phrase, “Stay Encouraged.”

 

Though the past remains the past, and there's no going back (though many of us yearn for a second chance), we are left with poignant memories; that only fade with advancing age.

    There is a memorable scene, at the end of the movie, “A River Runs Through it” that depicts an old man fly-fishing in a Montana river. (Interestingly enough, I am a distant cousin of the producer of this fine video, Robert Redford). As the elderly gentleman whips the rod, to and fro, he reflects on a good life gone by. He considers a hundred visits to the same river, with a father and brother, long since dead. He reflects on the words of his father; of rocks and water and “the words under the rocks.” For as his father once told him, “the words are the words of God” and “if you listen very carefully, you might hear them.”

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Musings"