DOWN TO THE BANK OF THE WARRIOR
The odors as we walk down the hill from River Road change with each
step. John is the first to notice the tiny toads hurriedly jumping away
from our muddy trail. There are no footprints. John and I are the first
ones to come down since the flood.
Creek warriors fought the Choctaws for this riverbank. The Muskogee
Nation claimed as far west as the east bank of the Tombigbee but they
were lucky just to get Choctaw permission to stay on the east bank of
the Warrior. A few city blocks from the river birch log upon which I
sit, Chief Eufaula humbly made his farewell address to the Alabama
legislature in 1836. He was about to take a long walk to Oklahoma.
Bald eagles once nested on this riverbank. Maybe they will nest here
again. Maybe one day we can sit in a restaurant on the crest of River
Hill, clink a few ice cubes together and watch the sun go down through
eagle's wings.
There are no boats on the river this afternoon. I sit here and supervise
my son's Tarzan tricks. He is climbing upon the leaning trunk of an old
willow tree that stretches out over the water. I make him climb down
and then wade out to check the bottom for trash.
He points to the willow
limbs above him and asks,"Can we build a tree house there?"
I don't
answer him.
He walks over to me and exclaims,"Daddy, look what that beaver did! He
tore down that whole tree with his teeth!"
"What kind of tree is this?," I ask.
"I don't know. I sure don't know."
"Look at the bark."
He peels some off and says,"It seems like it's paper."
I say,"It's named after a place we used to take you when you were a
little boy."
"River Birch?"
"Yeah."
John goes back to the willow tree and again climbs out over the river.
He counts his footsteps.
After twenty-eight steps he asks,"Should I go
any farther?"
I don't answer.
He goes out three more steps.
"You're gonna bust your
butt!," I yell.
"I'm not trying to. You know how I learned to climb so good?"
"How?"
"I watched Discovery Channel."
"What does the Discovery Channel have to do with climbing?"
"The monkeys. But I don't climb exactly like them. I move slowly."
I hear the traffic on River Road. The noise never went away. The novelty
of the Black Warrior caused me to ignore it for awhile. I wonder how
many people think about the river as they drive by.
My son had now penetrated the sandy peninsula that juts out into the
Warrior here at the mouth of University Branch. He is building a fort with
logs deposited by June's high water.
John returns with a piece of
driftwood. "Look at this cool piece of driftwood, Dad."
I have now changed my desk. I did this by moving my clipboard from the
beaver-downed river birch to the leaning willow.
My son prepares to
climb out on the willow once more. He needs to get by me. "Daddy! Daddy!
Excuse me, Dad," he says politely.
I move back over to the river birch and John climbs all the way out to
the very end of the tree.
He calls to me,"Hey,Dad, look at me!"
He
gathers leaves in his hands and drops them into the water.
"Daddy, why
do people always say, 'God help me' ?"
"Well, 'God help me' is just a part of it. What they mean to say is,
'God, help me to do it.' 'It' being whatever they're trying to
accomplish."
"I don't get it."
"Let me put it to you another way: God helps those who help themselves."
"So you have to try to do something before God can help you to do something."
"Rome wasn't built in a day."
"Oh, I get it. That's what we pray for each morning."
"That's right son."
I sit on my river birch and John sits on his willow branch. Both of us look out over the river.
I yell, "Let's go, Buddy."
"Dad, will you bring me here tomorrow?"
"I don't know, son. We'll see."
