wednesday i floated the piney, from helton's farm to long pool. with three old men-my father, r.j., and steve. on the water from 7:30 to 5:30 with about a 30 minute shore lunch of cold chicken and coca-cola. the water was lovely. green and pleasant to the touch.unusual for the level to be high enough this late in the year to avoid any portage. first time that three of us had floated that stretch. first time steve had floated it in twenty years. "this float was the big deal of big deals when i was a kid. but it must have been twenty years since the last time i've been on this stretch. me and stan." stan was steve's older brother. stan passed away about a year ago. retired in kansas city form hallmark. six weeks later had a heart attack in his car and died before the car came to a stop. float trips have always been big deals. we even had shirts that we wore, "it's time for a big deal" emblazoned across a garish eighties swirl of primary colors. at full strength it was three canoes full of fathers and sons. steve and andrew, randy joe and will, my father and i, but it's been several years since we all made a trip together. fathers have remained in close proximity while sons have scattered across the state and country. there was a time when we floated all the time and all over the state; the fourche lafave from gravely to bluffton, the illionois bayou from scottsville to dover, crooked creek, richland creek, the mulberry, the buffalo. any stream in the ozark mountains that could float a canoe or flat bottom was at some time a destination. and they were all beautiful, at least in my mind. granted there must have been times when the water was fouled by springtime runoff or we had to drag across some shoals, but all i can remember is looking through the green tinted water at the limestone shining 10 feet below the surface, the varying greens of spring and summer leaves along the banks, the afternoon storm bursts that sent us scurrying for an overhang or streamside barn, a fish with every cast. i remember that my father stacked rocks at my feet to assist my childish frame in keeping the front of canoe in the water. dad was always in the back choosing the way through the riffles and shoals, or what seemed to my young mind stretches of hazardous whitewater. to my constant admiration he always chose right, except once. we were on crooked creek, the water rising from a storm we had waited out at the launch that morning. we sideswiped a overhanging limb, the canoe pinned against the branches and filling with water until it overturned. i was about eight years old, not much of a swimmer but wearing a life jacket. from the time we hit the run to the time i hit the water was just a moment. i went under once and came up immediately. before i could even start doggy-paddling for the bank i found myself thrown through the air to the shallows. as i climbed to the dry ground i turned at the sound of my father's voice over the rush of the water, "you ok?' i gave him a wet and grinning thumbs up and he disappeared under the water, feeling along the bottom for the things that had moments ago graced the bottom of our canoe. after several minutes he came up with three of four rods, both tackle boxes, the ice chest and paddles floating downstream. the only real casualty was my cardinals cap, and this was quite a loss, enough to warrant a tear and frantic search that lasted the rest of the float. "maybe at the end of this pool?" "yeah maybe, or the pool after this one." we arrived at the takeout without my cardinals cap, but i found solace in my father's oft repeated words, "it's just a thing." he was right, just a thing. like the canoes and paddles, rods and reels, seat cushions and life jackets, the lures hung in the tops of trees. like the rocks, like the water, like the mortal flesh we cling to with all the strength of our souls. all just things. my father expects to live for another thirty years and chances are good he will, but after he lives the years left he will be gone. after he is gone i will grow old as well, telling children how long i expect to live, doing my best to fulfill my promise, and then i too will be gone. after we are gone some of these things may remain for a time, i pray the stretches of stream or perhaps a dusty clump of lures in a grandson's garage, but when i am gone so will be my trivial recollections of these times, passed and passing. Recollections, which are not things, and therefore eversomuch more precious. chris h | 
