A River Running Through You

I. River

People don’t talk about the river. Not as much as I think they should. The river runs through Waterville. It’s the Kennebec. I wonder how many people don’t know that. The Kennebec has been a major life force in Waterville since the mills have been around. The Hathaway Mill, the Lockwood Mill, and many more were the heartbeat to the city. Waterville and the Kennebec became a destination for families and a source of pride for everyone. Since the mills moved out, that’s changed. The river runs clear and there’s a fish elevator now. It’s no longer a city that people move to for economic opportunity or to raise a family. And the college students that come here leave the Hill when they can—there’s no reason to move downtown and find a job and start a family and grow old. They cleaned the river and then they left.

I’ve learned to walk here, next to the Kennebec.  It’s a practice in meditation.  Today ice crawls towards the middle but is disrupted by the current whisking away any ice that tries to tame the rushing water–almost like a punishment, strict boundary, solid and not.  The ducks are here in the dozens and I wonder if you can get duck itch in the winter.  Their little flippers leave footprints as they walk out to the edge where they rest.  Some sit and some swim, albeit close to the edge, where the current isn’t so forceful.  They exist so calmly, I wonder if it is the proximity of their raft. And it’s exciting, the prospect and the pull of the current, angry but alluring nonetheless.

I knew how to walk before I arrived at the river.  I learned with my arms above my head holding on for dear life.  It’s not the kind of thing you remember, those memories belong to your parents, the ones reaching down to meet those outstretched hands.  They, too, are holding on for dear life.  There’s a way the Kennebec draws you into her arms if you listen, like a child to her mother.  And I find that I am drawn to the river when I am downtown.  There’s something about the deafening silence created by falling water, drowning out any other sound, demanding to be heard.  The current lets her anger out. Finally.   She has been waiting for miles.  She collects her fear, sadness, and loss as she approaches the falls.  Angry for the leaking pipes and runoff salt from the bridges that cross her.  Angry and violent expulsion of everything that has ever happened upstream in a deafening roar over the falls once used to power Hathaway.  Reaching catharsis.

I can’t hear anyone but the river.  I hear the river and I walk towards her banks, across the Two Pence bridge. I glance at the ducks, wondering if the water feels nice despite the cold.  One day at the park next to the river I said that the river called for a swim.  I didn’t realize I said it aloud until the old man next to us said, you don’t want to do that, the river looks calm, but underneath the current is strong and will rip you away to the falls.   Some days I wonder if that would be so bad.  

I can tell he grew up here in the way that his cheeks have deep wrinkles and his skin is closer to leather after decades of sun.  I hope it’s been a good life.  I hope the answer is it has when my day comes.  I hope there’s no question about it.  All this hoping, though, and where’s the living?  Is the hoping part of life, or separate, only there to take you away from the hugs that save your world, the laughs that take your breath, and the smiles that cast light on your shadows.  Some days my thoughts are faster than the current and want to take me with them, straight to the falls where I would crash and tumble and become smooth like river stones.

The Messalonskee winds its way north from the lake with the same name and curls underneath I95 turning south,through Quarry Road Trails, along to the train tracks and through the arboretum.  Really, the Messalonskee flows between Colby and the rest of Waterville. She wraps her arms around the Hill and yet still, no one knows how she runs through  us.  

Like water flows, I move down the Hill, away from school and towards the Messalonskee.  The stream doesn’t make much sound, the current is quiet and the only way to notice it is picking up a leaf or a stick and tossing it.  Never mind where the wind takes it, but notice what happens when it hits the water.  Like the winter stream, your thoughts meander.  But as soon as the snow melts, your thoughts–like the water–will move quickly, violently.  Neither  cares what’s in their way.  There’s snow on the way, so the melt isn’t much to worry about this warm and bright and harsh day; the water will flow stronger today but become still when flakes fall.  This melt is only a tease.  But with the change in season comes the full melt, melting away the memories of the winter passed and all those who held on so tightly to the snow.

II. Running

The Kennebec River begins at Moosehead Lake. I, too, begin at Moosehead. My first memories are here at ‘Fish Camp.’ It takes forever to get to Fish Camp and it is not uncommon to feel queasy on the back roads; best cured by looking out the window. And out the window is the mama moose and her calf, captured on digital by Mom. We are hardly inside at Fish Camp and some might argue that even the cabin doesn’t quite count. My sister is just learning to talk, few words in her vocabulary, but already opinionated and outspoken. The screen door claps shut if you aren’t careful, and I often am not, but not hard enough to hurt if you don’t scoot through quite fast enough.

Fish Camp is Peter’s favorite place, almost like another grandfather to me, the one you see a couple times a year but you love no less; he is Buppa’s best friend and has been since kindergarten.  Seventy years now.  Karen, Peter’s wife, always encouraged me to sing, even before I could hit the notes.  And they have kids that Mom and Uncle Ben grew up with.  Maggie, Kelly, and Audrey.  Me, Julian, Bailey, and sister Hannah.  We were the first grandkids born from this friendship, the next generation to spend Christmas together and go to Fish Camp each summer.  Another generation of memories held in the waters that lap the shores of Fish Camp.

My sister hates Fish Camp, the bees make her angry and the sun burns her skin and the grass makes her cry.  But I love Fish Camp–canoeing, swimming, fishing, skipping rocks.  And I love the rain.  Mom and Dad said I could go back to the cabin early from dinner.  All would have been well except that every single cabin looks the same, only distinguished by which way the screen door faces.  Not confident in the direction ours faces, I find myself at the shore next to a boy much like an older cousin skipping rocks–not well obviously, but Bailey was nice about it.

I wasn’t lost until my parents came and found me.

Twenty five miles down the river is a town called The Forks, rather an uninspired name for the place where the Dead River meets the Kennebec.  These towns don’t exist in the winter, but in the summer more rafting companies than year round residents make a go at earning anything in the tourism industry.  I’ve come here a few times before on school trips, but this is my first time with my family.  We have a little cabin for the weekend and it reminds me of Fish Camp, but it smells like fresh pine, the walls soft as though there would soon be divots in the floors and the walls from frequent use.

The cabin allows us the luxury to wake up at a reasonable time instead of leaving the house before the sunrise to make it to the river on time.  We get breakfast as a family and I am reminded of days at Fish Camp, life was simple and the only thing to worry about was what clothes you didn’t mind getting wet and if Mom would make a comment about the river guide flirting with you and if you would tell her she was making it up or accept it as just another part of the service; safely down the river for the small price of a charming girl who has hardly filled out and doesn’t quite know how to deflect with witty retorts that emasculate and disarm.

And further down the Kennebec is Waterville, a town I had only visited once before I was a junior in high school.  My mom went to Colby but we didn’t grow up as kids of a Colby grad.  She, as so many others have, left the Hill and never looked back.  She didn’t want me to end up on the Hill that she left, a place where she wasn’t herself and only kept her away from the love of her life.  And so she left, and so did we, moving on to vacation and not thinking much about the memories this place held for her.

And further still, the Kennebec dumps into the Penobscot Bay at Popham Beach.  The beach I made a best friend at.  Stripping to our bras and underwear to run into the late January waters of freshman year.  The beach we go to during the pandemic where people keep their distance with a gentle and knowing nod and the only physical touch we share are the dogs greeting each other.  We fly a kite today, the stunt kite Dad has had for years and taught us to use when we were still Bip and Bean and Buckaroo.  Daisy runs around to greet the other people and their dogs and loves to chase after the kite–we were all together, safe, memories held in the water flowing through us.

III. You

There’s a bridge, I won’t tell you where, that goes over the stream and if you listen for the birds they will tell you when it’s time to go there.  The birds don’t tease like the snow does here on the Messalonskee.  

You’ve been to the bridge many times, the first was with a boy you were falling in love with.  The snow blanketed the world and he saw you like you were still beautiful.  The way he looked at you, foreign to your young body.  Desire and care and falling in love and admiration–a fragmented picture drawn from stolen glances. 

The last time was one of those May days when you realize that, all at once, spring has arrived.  The flowers on the trees in front of your window are in full bloom.  That boy you were falling in love with?  Gone.  He said with his mouth words that might appease you–it’s not you, it’s me–with his body he said I’ve never been in love before and I can’t start now.  

Today, I am with people who love me and aren’t afraid. And May is in the air.  A perfect day to take back the stolen glances and dreams of falling in love.

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And now you are smooth as river stones.  The river between you runs straight now, the current too strong to bend its banks.  Although you still wish it meandered at a pace that didn’t wear you so polished that nothing sticks.  It is uncrossable and not worth the fight.   Between the first and last time you went to that bridge, you found yourself on the way there, but you never quite made it.  He’s given you plenty to hate him for.  And you did.  For months, you fell into hatred.  And you swim in the river of your memories with him, angry, because you know how to swim but you can’t pull yourself out, not yet anyway.  You are strong to keep swimming, your friends tell you, the current fast enough to wear you down to smooth pebbles.  No more rough edges to hate with, smooth with love.  Smooth is not apathy.  Smooth is care, consistency, comfort.

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The walk to the bridge over the Messalonskee smells sweet and tastes better.  This time it’s with your friends, some of them were his and some of them yours, but they all love you like their own.  Not quite the fragmented picture, but it’s turned you whole.  It’s the kind of hot that feels oppressive in May and breezy in August.  Walking for longer than you remember finally to arrive at the bridge.  The metal is hot like the change sitting in your car cupholder, but you walk out to the middle anyway and look down and you see why people are afraid of heights.  There’s possibility in the space between the bridge and the water, and it’s terrifying.

The bridge is far from the water, and it might hurt if you jump, so you check that the water is deep enough.  It is.  Scrambling up the bank, you see bits of glass and wonder what else might bring blood to the surface.  Who else knows about the bridge and who else thinks about jumping and who else has checked how high the water is.

It’s a balancing act walking out to the middle of the bridge, stepping over each gap like it doesn’t bother you and you don’t wonder what would happen if you missed and your leg fell between the beams and you got splinters all the way up–ankle to hip–and you needed help later to remove them all.  Who would be the one to take the splinters out?  

You don’t fall and instead slide underneath the rusted-away railing. You’re ready to jump. Minutes here, but the metal is hot to touch, so you balance on the smallest part of your left foot and quickly switch the hand that is holding on–hovering over possibility. Balanced without jumping, but your quads burn and you think about crawling back under the railing. But too many people are watching, and you still missed the boy you were falling in love with, so you jump. Suspended. The space between the bridge and the water is quiet, and the air is still except for where you move through it. And then, the cool spring water that moves slowly in May is wrapped around you and this is when you become alive– with the river running through you.