WORDS … it is said, have launched ships, made and brought down nations and have inspired all, from kings to the common man. They are the currency of communication. As the old saw says, “Clothes make the man.”, similarly words make the character of any person. For how we speak is more important that what we speak. Because what we speak is constructed of the How.
In my life words are a most important commodity. They are, after all one part of my biotope of creativity. I do enjoy creating imagery with the combination of words. Thus, there are sources of words which are especially important … even dear to me.
My family is a source of such words. My wife is my dearest friend and most invested colleague in life. She and I also share in the delights of being permanent partners in – post-parenting – for a fabulously wonderful young man. His offspring are the combination of his efforts and the woman whom he married and has become his best friend and colleague and our daughter. From their committed friendship have sprung two (thus far) children; the apples of all our eyes. Those two darling offspring are our most treasured treasures. They are Brooklyn and Wyatt.
BBW or, Before Brooklyn ‘n Wyatt, there were many words, along with their connected moments, for which my wife and I consider as most treasured moments. Such things as the first ‘I love you’; and the “Yes!” to an engagement request; and the “I do.” promissory of a life-long commitment of love and devotion. Then as parents, the first words of our son, “Mommy”, “Daddy”. To a lessor extent for us – but monumental to both sets for grandparents – hearing his first terms of ‘grand’ applied to them and the follow-up whimsies he sent forth. As he grew and expressed his mind; even in the times of disagreement; we saw in his words, the character of the man he would become. The vocabulary he grew up with was not tainted in words that bring embarrassment and shame. But, rather with words that uplift, encourage and speak to a higher focus. He has, in life thus far, mirrored the pictures painted by those words. The pleasure we as parents derive from this, flows in an unspoken, yet not wordless, vocabulary of love and respect. For a parent, it truly – doesn’t get any better than this!
Over the past 8 1/2 years – the time since Brooklyn came on the scene – my wife and I have been adding an entire lexicon of words we use to bring smiles, tears, warm-fuzzies, and moments of pure joy to our lives. Then 2 1/2 years later, our family increased by one, when Master Wyatt came along. He has been a remarkably wonderful addition; both to life and the now expanding B&W Lexicon.
Utterly astounding, it is, how a simple phrase such as, “That’s not right!”; or a word like “Grandpa?”; can usher in both a concrete point of how to live a treasured life, or just warm the cockles of the heart. All the while bringing a smile – that heartily competes with the brightest of sunrises – on our faces. But it happens: daily!
Our B & W Lexicon of Endearing Words and Phrases is filling up with such treasures as:
- “Oh Grandpa…”
- “One time…”
- “I do!”
- “Will it hurt you?”
- “She’s over me.”
- “I don’t like cauliflower!”
- “Keep it in your mind.”
- “Are you pulling my leg?”
- “It’s just my ‘magination’.”
With many more to come.
To you, the reader, there is little emotion stirred from the list above – unless you have a direct connection of your own. For me however, it’s a world of metaphor. Each word and phrase telling an entire story. One which each time I see – I am taken back-in-time to the moment the memory was made. This is the power of words. Ad a series of musical notes to the mix and the memory is encased in neural concrete.
The name of our granddaughter, Brooklyn, for me conjures an entire book; literally. The story came to mind the minute I heard what her name would be. It has nothing to do with an urban landscape, nor the bridge so associated.
The scenic memory takes root in the first five letters of her beautiful name: BROOK. As an avid fly-fisher, I am also a lover of the colder water fish known to the fraternity of trout lovers as Salvelinus fontinalis. Or more commonly known as the Brook Trout. Not actually a trout, but a member of the char family, the brook trout is to the cold water fishes, what the wood duck is to waterfowl: shear unadulterated beauty. A magnificent array of color and beauty. My granddaughter is well named.
Within a few days of Brooklyn’s birth I began fantasizing non-stop about a time in the not-too-distant future, when she would begin asking me to take her fishing; to teach her to fly-fish; and the days upon days of joy and excitement the two of us would share in pursuit of the finer, more artistic part of the wonderful event called fly-fishing.
My fantasy melded into the story of a little girl’s journey along a stream in which a little brook trout emerges from it’s egg sack learning to fend for itself; growing into a young parr and making it’s way in the watery world of the stream, regularly visited by the little girl and her family.
The opening scene has the little girl riding in her car seat, along the winding road that parallels the mountain stream in which the little brook trout has just emerged. As the family car passes over the bridge spanning the soon-to-be-home of the tiny trout, the little girl; unable yet to speak or know the world about her, sees the colors of the newly emerged leaves and the light as it gently filters down from the blue sky above and she smiles. She has no idea why, but a feeling of comfort, warmth, belonging and home come over her. She’s far too young to understand any of this beyond the sense of comfort and it makes her smile. Interestingly, this same feeling washes over her every time their family car passes over this bridge. No other. Just this bridge.
Three years later as she and her daddy walk along the stream, just down from the bridge, the fly her daddy had just dropped into a feeding lane vanishes. A few minutes later, the little girl and the now 3 year old brook trout meet. Immediately she falls in love with the brook trout; she wants to take it home. Her daddy tells her about the value of being selective and letting the trout go back to the water and live; to make more trout and maybe she’ll visit again by taking another of daddy’s flies. The trout, knowing nothing of love, but a lot about fear of predators, does not – when looking at the little human – feel the fear she has of the warm thing gripping her. The moment is brief, but forever in the minds of both entities.
The story continues to tell the interaction of the brook trout and the little girl, culminating in the day, 3 years later, when the little girl catches the little brook trout and the little girl must make her first life and death decision. You will have to read the book (and I will have to finish writing it) to find out the answer.
All of this washed over me -again and again – like an ocean wave. Each time bringing in more information, idea and energy. Somehow, I just knew Brooklyn would become my fishing companion. And now in her 8th year, she is beginning to make a move in that direction.
I was greeted with a phone call a few weeks back with a request from Miss Brooklyn. “Grandpa?” she asked.
“Yes, Miss Brooklyn, what can I do for my precious little lady?”
“Grandpa, would you take me fly-fishing?”
At that moment, somewhere in the realms of my heaven, angelic choirs lit off into a mighty Reggae line and the steel drums echoed among the mountain tops! Music to my ears! Bingo! I’d hit the lottery!! All of this and a thousand times more.
“Why, sure thing princess. When do we go?”, I was able to gasp out.
“Oh, Grandpa, it’s still too cold. But I want to go as soon as we can.”, she intoned.
“We’ll do it fist time we have opportunity. Maybe when you and Wyatt come stay with us this summer. How about that?”, I added.
“Oh, can’t we do it sooner? I really want to go fly-fishing.”, she pleaded unnecessarily; I was totally sold!
“We will go fly-fishing at the very first opportunity and we’ll do it as often as we can and you want to continue. How’s that?”, I committed.
“OK. That sounds great. I hope it’s really soon.”, she said with great plans and hope.
“Me, too, sweetie. Me too!”, I said concretely.
Unlike the verse that greeted me, when I would take the final drink from my favorite Donald Duck whistle cup as a kid, “All Gone”. This story, instead winds into another word phrase of memorable importance. I hear the musical refrain, the song which ushered my wife and I from our marriage ceremony, courtesy of Karen and Richard Carpenter, and remember – “We’ve Only Just Begun”.
Oh! Have we ever …just begun.
O’fieldstream Outdoor Journal
