Rushing River

"Tell me, young miracle, how does a pear tree come to be planted by the riverbank?"

"I don't know, Grandma. But I bet you know."

I was jumping from one flat rock to the next, trying hard to listen to Grandma's stories while hunting for the perfect skipping stones. My pink smock dress and white sandals pegged us as tourists to the Little River, recently escaped from the annual church picnic. Grandma walked upstream along the bank with my brother, Al, short for Alden: "a family name" as Father would say. Our father, the Rev. Timothy Alden Hammer, was the third to carry the name. He brought it along with him all the way from Massachusetts to Webb's Creek Methodist Church. Grandma, who had a history of raising preacher's children, said she'd come to help us settle in. I think she might also have been trying to find out a few things about our new congregation, especially all those Webbs.

"Let me catch my breath now, Millie." I wished she would call me by my full name, now that I was almost ten. I hated to think of Charlie Webb thinking of me as a Millicent, when Amelia was so much more dignified.

Grandma stretched her back, frowning up at the sky. "I don't like the look of those clouds. Not one bit. Looks like our mountains are getting another summer storm."

"It don't bother us none, does it, Al?" My brother just walked along quietly. He shielded his eyes and looked up, doing his best to pretend he saw what she saw up in the sky. His eyes didn't work quite right, on account of he was born without that colored ring most people have in their eyes. I noticed he was holding on tighter to Grandma's hands. He had to wear thick glasses and didn't do so well with bright light. Down here near the river, with the water rushing past, it wasn't so bright. He made his way along the path just fine with Grandma's help.

"Now, where was that pear tree? It sits in a little glen up from the riverside, near where the forks in the river meet. You will soon find yourself plenty of flat stones for skipping, young lady. I can sit by that old pear tree and watch you send your stones over the watering hole where I once brought your father when he was your age."

The young pear tree blossomed white, showering petals with each trace of the April breeze. Sudden gusts sent burts of springtime snow into a young woman's bonnet. She removed her hat, shook out the unmelting flakes and let down her hair. A young man followed suit by rolling up his sleeves. He called out to a young boy swimming in the river below to mind the sharp rocks. Bending down, he stretched his lanky frame out on the grass and laid his head in the lap of his beloved. He looked up to the sky as she looked down into the bluer pools of his eyes. The river called up to the pear tree in greeting, but she just blushed.

"Here it is, Grandma. Here's your pear tree." As the wind was picking up, the higher branches of the pear tree looked to be waving back in greeting. Around and behind the tree, the forest had given way to high meadow that fell away to the river banks overgrown with blackberries and brambles. "You haven't told me who planted it yet. How did it grow to be so old, as old as my father? Did he plant it?"

"No. Your grandfather brought me here for a picnic lunch, years ago when we were courting. His father's people were farmers up in New England, back when this country was new. They brought seeds from there, all kinds of seeds, for green beans and sweet corn and pumpkin squash. Most importantly, they brought plantings from a pear tree they say has been growing and bearing fruit for hundreds of years. We shared one of those pears and planted the seeds here in the ground, right in the center of the meadow where the creek wanders down to the river."

"Well, I'm glad you didn't plant green beans." Dark clouds continued to gather and we began to hear rumbles of thunder in the distant hills. "Pear trees are so much more lovely. She looks like she is dancing in the wind."

"I've seen this one dancing in the springtime breeze. Today she looks more like she is pointing to the coming rain. I'm afraid there won't be much swimming today before we need to head back. Now, where has that brother of yours wandered off to?"

We could see Alden, picking blackberries, his eyes close enough to the canes to barely avoid a scratch. Grandma went to help him find some footing on the steep bank. As promised, there was a broad sweep of flat stones around the swimming hole, so I tried my hand at sending some across to the other bank. By this time in the summer, many of the hot days had ended in shows of lighting and downpours that kept the boulders fully immersed in watery baptism. I could have skipped stones for hours without hitting any hindrances. Alden, on the other hand, was having a more difficult time. He had his heart set on swimming and Grandma was sorely in need of a nap.

"You can wade up to your knees," I heard her say. "I'm going to rest a minute, but I'll be watching you."

"But I can't see you, Grandma," Al pouted.

"Then I'll sing. I'll sit under the pear tree and sing, and you can splash in the river."

She sang "In the Garden" and "Down by the Riverside" and she was "Bringing in the Sheaves" when her voice grew quieter than the river. Al kept on splashing. He knew exactly where to find Grandma by the sound of her snoring.

A strong arm held her beneath her shoulders as she leaned back. Even with her eyes closed, she could sense the sunlight shifting through the leaves. She could feel the grassy meadow at her heels, hear the quiet breathing in the warmth, taste him as they kissed. The bough broke and she fell back with a laugh....

The loud crack got my attention. Another snap, like a dry twig, fired upriver, a distant echo of the breaking branch of the pear tree. Then came the sound of more wood cracking like kindling broken underfoot. I dropped the last of my skipping stones and looked up to see Grandma springing to her feet, tearing through the brambles toward Alden.

"Amelia Endecott Hammer, come here!"

As I ran toward them, I watched in awe as Grandma, who not two minutes before had been snoring under the pear tree, snatched my brother up and staggered back up the riverbank with him wriggling under her arms. I caught up with them as she flopped him on the ground, stunned and dismayed by the sudden and strange turn of events.

"Grandma!" I said with my best scolding voice, "what has gotten into you? Did you have a nightmare?"

She pointed upriver, panting heavily, "Flash. Flood."

Within moments, the entire scene changed. Our senses were overcome with the sound of rushing water pushing around and over trees, forcing saplings into submission, snapping smaller trunks in two if they refused to yield, pushing giant sycamores into twisted angles. I had heard people speak of a wall of water, and there was no better way to describe it: a roiling, white-capped, muddy-brown boundary between our playground and a levee of chaos piled high with debris. Five seconds later, the wall was past us. As we watched from the safety of the meadow, water swirled around our ankles and drained back toward the riverbed. A ribbon reached around the edge of the glen, encompassing the pear tree like a watery rainbow. It seemed to me the river was apologizing, or maybe making a promise somehow.

To this day, I struggle to find words for the feeling I had standing there with my Grandma, my little brother and that wise old pear tree with the branch broken, not by the flood, but by some gracious premonition.

Grandma only went back one time, when Alden had grown strong enough to carry lumber for a simple bench. She and I held hands the whole way up the river path to the meadow. We sat in the shade of our old friend, watching as my brother fashioned two posts out of the old broken branch and topped them off with the newly-planed plank. Grandma asked me if I knew how a pear tree came to be planted by the riverbank. Across the glen, a doe and her mate stepped out of the shadows and made their way down the bank to the river. "I don't know, you old miracle, but I bet you know."