I’m working today. Revision on my woodfire cookbook/memoir. This is the mouth of the Two Hearted River near my camp. My camp is on the Little Two Hearted. A poem from my memoir about water:
My mother hated water, she said.
The leaks in the roof, the flood seeping into the basement where she was nearly electrocuted once as, one foot in the water, she reached a hand out to the washing machine and found herself stuck there with the current racing up and down one side of her body, lucky they said—since it would have been the end of her—to throw herself backward without reaching—to pry herself off, with that other hand.
She hated the leaks under the sink—that incessant dripping.
She wasn’t fond of storms and she was terrified of Grand Traverse Bay due to her never having learned to swim; she got seasick standing on the dock.
She loved the good, dry land. She was a sun worshipper.
My father whose grandfather had been a steamboat captain loved water in all its forms.
I am like them both. love the land, but I love water– rivers, particularly, how they seem to beckon, the hidden recesses of them that seem to match those in your mind.
The deadfall; the holes you must shuffle to avoid.