Sharing

A few weeks ago I took Jonathan to the Battlefield. We had a great time.  The Battlefield is an intricate part of my childhood. I spent countless hours there in all seasons with my family, and friends and even by myself. In fact if there was any place as important to my growing up more than my home and possibly my church, it would be here.
I fell asleep under the stars on a blanket every summer listening to bluegrass music. In fact the day I slid off my bike and impaled my head on a piece of gravel, after a trip to Urgent care, I ended up on a blanket under the stars staring dreamily at a stage full of musicians in front of a patchwork quilt.
I waded in the creek as far as I dared, and threw rocks just a few feet more.
I spent my summers swimming in the concrete pool with it's rickety, spider-ridden bath house.
I hiked the trail to the top of Prophet's Rock.  I found a nest of snakes. My brother, and sister and I scraped together enough spare change to buy my mother a bottle of Lilac perfume at the museum. I lingered in the coolness of the nature center, staring at eery stuffed racoons on the wall and fat squirrels gorging on birdseed through the window, to avoid going back out into the stifling summer heat.
I collected leaves for my school leaf collection.
I had countless picnics
played pooh sticks over the green painted bridge.
Got my senior pictures taken at the edge of the creek.
Photographed my sister for her senior portraits, my parents for their 25 wedding anniversary, the birth of a new baby, friends for pure amusement. I learned how to take pictures there.
I heard, and memorized the story of Tecumseh and the Prophets and their valiant yet futile efforts to preserve their way of life.
I went to Vacation Bible School, and Girl Scout Camp.
Spent time alone with God. Prayed.

Sat around in a picnic shelter discussing theology with my high school friends.
Picked violets for my aunt.
Witnessed the union of two of my dearest friends under the sycamore trees at the edge of the creek.
And a hundred more memories.

I intentionally took Jonathan there alone, so it could be a memory I had of us together. But only a few minutes  sitting on "the rock" I had sat on so many times before, I couldn't resist calling my mom. Sadly she was working.
Carrying only my little point-and-shoot camera, I did my best to capture the experience.

These are the stairs leading down to the creek.
There are two ways-and only two ways to go down them.  1. The slower more cautious approach where you plant each foot on each step, giving you steady even footing. the other method...
2. One foot per step. The steps are just close enough for this to be possible, but wide enough that to take this approach gives one the feeling of recklessness and near flight.

Jonathan chose the two-footed method., he is cautious, like his mother.

This is the rock at the banks of the creek. The rock we climbed over and kept our shoes from getting wet, while we walked barefoot in the water, and sat on while we waited for our toes to dry.

This is the path that leads to the edge of the water.

Jonathan was enamored with the bridge.

I suddenly had new respect for my mother. All those years she watched us lean over, climb over, sit on the ledge of that bridge! That terrifying, unsafe concrete bridge.
 I saw with new eyes that day.

Jonathan loved it.

There are likely dozens of pictures of me on that rock.

Jonathan had a little trouble not sliding off!

Thus begins the series of rock throwing. Jonathan was ambitious. He chose rocks the size of his head to toss.

Right here, this is where two of my oldest, dearest, most like family friends, got married.