The summer of 1976 still lives somewhere inside me.
I grew up in north Georgia on a large lake, far enough from Atlanta that the city felt like another world. My world was water, woods and endless summer days. We fished until dark. We swam until our fingers wrinkled. We chased snakes, were chased by wasps, and somehow survived minibikes and hand-tossed fireworks.
That summer was different. Our nation was celebrating its Bicentennial, and my mother decided a single day of fireworks wasn’t enough. She was determined that our family would celebrate America’s 200th birthday every chance we had.
If there was a parade, we went. If there was a festival, we were there. Church picnics, neighborhood cookouts, community celebrations, historical exhibits. We traveled to Williamsburg and walked streets where history seemed to linger around every corner. I stood in front of Abraham Lincoln’s hat and Dorothy’s ruby slippers from The Wizard of Oz. At the time, they were interesting things to see, nothing more. I had no idea they would become landmarks in my own memory.
Back then, life seemed wonderfully uncomplicated. Summer mornings stretched forever. Our rhythm of playing on the water was interrupted only by adventures through endless woods and farm fields. Every fishing trip promised the biggest fish of the year. Every sunset beckoned tomorrow’s adventure.
I still see the little boy who wiggled his toes to free them from the lake-bottom mud before casting his line into a sunset-stained lake. He had no idea those days would become the measure of his life for years to come.
Those memories resurfaced this past Independence Day. Once again there were family gatherings, good food, conversations with friends and time spent with a fishing pole in my hand. The details had changed, but something about the rhythm of the weekend felt familiar.
Then a friend sent me a photograph. It was a simple picture of me holding a fish. The one I’d caught that day. Nothing remarkable about it. Except it was in black and white.
Without the distraction of color, it could almost have belonged to another lifetime.
For a moment, fifty years folded together. The boy in Georgia stood beside the man I am today. Memories that had quietly waited for the right moment finally found me again.
This month’s journaling prompt:
Look back one year. Five years. Fifty years, if you’ve been given that gift.
Who were you then?
Who are you today?
Who are you becoming?
You may discover that your life isn’t a straight line at all. It’s a collection of moments, patiently waiting for the right sound, the right smell, or the right photograph to remind you that every version of yourself is still walking beside you.
John Wilkerson writes a monthly column for MNN to share his love of journaling. According to John he “works most days writing and fiddling with his computer. His new, old, home in Menomonie is constantly subjected to DIY mayhem. His background includes ghost writing, newspaper reporting, and a stretch in marketing and advertising.” He may be contacted at [email protected]
