“We made a good team. ” Midge Ballard (1946 – 2018)
Children are introduced to dreams at a tender age. Like puddles after a common summer downpour, fantasies swirl and wash about hillsides and form rivulets. They cascade ever downward and invite all to splash, stomp, and stir about. Some fairy tales drain back into the earth while others find their way to a small babbling brook.
For children, dreams arrive with or without a formal introduction. Dreams pop up in songs, fairytales, and movies. If we sing “When you wish upon a star” or “Puff the Magic Dragon” children make no distinction between common sense and romantic nonsense. Kids fly in their dreams, especially on dragons with sword in hand, or reenact Merlin’s childhood adventures with red and white dragons trapped under King Vortigern’s castle.
Children don’t discover dragons through dreams. Children already know that dragons roam around garden hedges, within mountain caves and behind thunderclouds. Dreams invent ways dragons can be trained, flown or if necessary destroyed.
Over time fairytales evolve beyond fantastic romanticism. Merlin taught young King Arthur, “Be brave, fight for what you believe in, and make your dreams a reality.” Merlin also taught Arthur the science of metallurgy… forging steel from stone. As the legend recounts, young Arthur wielded Excalibur from the anvil and heralded in Briton’s next king. This man of steel put and end to the invading Saxon’s White dragon and initiated the Knights of the Round Table. In fairy tales, children and red dragons rule.
But this story isn’t about Excalibur or fiery dragons but the protective shield we hold in our non dominant hand. My first Excalibur was a discarded car antenna while a crumpled garbage can top provided the accompanying shield. Along with my trusty dog Nicky, we hid under a great magnolia tree and defeated plundering dragons. Garbage can tops shield children from Dragon fire. To this very day I encounter pirates and dragons. And just as importantly, I continue to carry a shield that defends against marauding, twenty-first century fierce creatures. I carry my dream (pic below).
A mother’s arms shield her newborn. For the toddler, the shield includes wordless redirection. A mother stands up and guides her daughter towards a new location, away from hot stoves, a steep ledge, or a sharp object. Every year the shields that protect children shapeshift and become ever more intricate. When a daughter comes of age, helmets and airbags give way to a mother’s most potent shield…. a way of living. Knitted from her own gossamer dreams, mothers pass on this shield to protect her teenager from fierce creatures.
I have watched a mother shield and redirect her daughter. “Follow my footsteps and this shield will protect you.” However, a willful child can plot a singular path until one day mother and her shield are gone.
The West Fork of Cox’s Creek originates as a babbling brook outlining the border between Nelson and Bullitt counties. The creek wanders northeastward until it merges with Cox’s Creek. A few miles downstream it joins the Salt River. Fox Hill Farm includes land in Nelson and Bullitt Counties. Most August days the West Fork of Cox’s Creek runs dry (pic above). It seems like yesterday’s dream to me now but, thirty years ago I hiked the dry creek bed with my three sons. As we meandered, we overturned rocks, caught crawdads, salamanders, and netted chubs and darters from small pockets of water.
Our favorite resting site was the small shaded waterfall pictured above. Down stream from the waterfall lay Sam’s Island and a reflecting pool about two feet deep carved out of the limestone bedrock. The stone remnants of a bridge border the distal end of this pool. The bridge connected an abandoned lane from Bardstown to Shepherdsville. In 1790, pioneers replenished their salt supplies in Shepherdsville before crossing the Falls of the Ohio. I can see beads of sweat create ripples in that pool as the homesteaders pulled wagons westward, across that narrow bridge toward Illinois dreams. On hot August days we skipped rocks, waded in its cool waters, and lazily watched the ripples distort the reflected light.
Some years back on a New Year’s Day Judy, Sam, and I hiked to the creek. The waterfall was roaring as Sam enjoyed skipping rocks across the stream. While on Sam’s Island, Judy lost her balance and plunged into the January waters. The shallow pool cushioned the fall and shielded her brittle bones. After her polar bear plunge, Judy allowed the above captured pic. Her right paw and dignity were bruised, but only her cell phone was broken. However, Sam was quiet disgruntled. He never dreamed that his soggy grandma wanted to leave Cox’s Creek for warm, dry clothes. He didn’t understand… cats don’t like to get wet.
On differs occasions my three sons have returned with friends and family to the waterfall, Sam’s Island, and the reflecting pool beyond. Sam declared the limestone rock island below the waterfall as his personal kingdom and begat “Sam’s Island.” While gazing into the still pool waters sometimes I skip across past memories and dream about tomorrow’s possibilities. As you might guess, just when I’m lost in a watery daydream Lilly wades across the reflecting pool. I smile because dreams do come true.
But the question I keep asking, “How do they come true?” Are dreams foreseen like a mountain in the distance and we need only to bike to them, or are dreams a man made, creative design? While trekking there are always signs, memes, and of course gnomes that say , “Come this way.” When I bike should I arch my back and keep my head searching the road immediately below my tires (pic below) or should I buckle my spine, keep my head up and my sights focused down the road? As you might have guessed, I’m now retired with lots of free time.
Although camouflaged, dreams dwell in plain sight and shield dreamers. While biking up and down the Blue Ridge Parkway, surrounded by national forest, with blue skies above, and a well paved road below, I stream Pandora music. A blue grass version of “Almost heaven” flooded the earbuds while I crested Mabry Mill Hill (2855′). “Country roads, take me home. To the place I belong.” With a water wheel in the background and ripples racing across the ajoining pond I squawked “younger than the mountains but older than the trees.” This narrow ribbon of highway was music to my ears. Imagine that.
Today, only Lilly and I made the trip past Gnome boy’s Red Oak tree and on down to the waterfall (pic above). The pool was silent. Father Time and Ol’ man river, two of my favorite nomads, have drifted on to tomorrow. From Sam’s Island, I picked up a small, flat piece of limestone and skipped it across the pool and onto the opposite bank. It hopped over the water several times and clunked in a rock pile. The ripples grew symmetrically and enlarged until they enveloped each other and bounced off the limestone walls. Long after the rock clatter vanished the reflected water rolled, crests, and furrows. The mirrored reflection of the cedar trees and the sky vanished but splashes of browns, blues, and greens remained. I smiled and felt the laugh lines… again. Dreams come true.
Season after season, protected by sycamores and cedars, I carry my dreams down to the creek. In this evening’s twilight I see my children growing old and wrinkled. My sons and their families intermingle like the ripples spreading across the face of the reflecting pool. This babbling brook endures as a sight for sore eyes.
if that’s not “almost heaven,” I don’t know what is.
so even though Midge can’t, on down the road i go.
Rest in peace.
