Communication

He taught me to live, love, laugh and be happy

just like the old song.

He would explain how Canada Jays came to be called Whiskey Jacks or Gourbys.

Said the Chickadee was actually singing..

"Old Tom Peabody Peabody Peabody"

cause old Tom fed him during the winter

and Chickadees weren't migratory.

We built campfires under starry skies

watched the smoke from the heat of the flame

spiral upwards towards the expanse of those

diamond studs buried in the black velvet blanket

of a dark peaceful night.

Whiskey Jacks would glide effortlessly into the campsite.

They were open and friendly

Fed them from my hand more than once.

Always the sage with respect for creation

he would talk about the marvels of the same.

He spoke about things like the distance of the sun from the earth.

A little bit closer, we'd burn up

a little farther away we'd freeze.....

He talked about communication

Said the animals communicate by smells, movements and sounds.

Some animals even warn others when predators are close

The Bantum Rooster makes a high pitched kluk kluk kluk

when a weasel is present or

a high single long shriek

when it spots a hawk overhead.

I would sit and listen fascinated by his

stories and in awe of his experience.

We always camped by a stream in the summer or early fall.

He'd say,

"The water rushing over the rocks was the tireless flow of the grand creator's energy feeding his creatures the waters of life."

I always felt like it was,

I still do.

Then the morning sun would pour into the campsite like butterscotch.

The flies started buzzing round and the early morning songbirds cheered the coming of another day.

I'd force one eye open

There he'd be, boiling the kettle as he called it.

The kettle was nothing more than a blackened can hanging over the flames on a stick...

The scent of fresh coffee on the air......

I would rise up to the romance of life and after a quick breakfast

out came the fishing poles, bait cans and fishing baskets.

Laughing and thrilled with the anticipation of the good things to come

we would wade out into the stream, sometimes almost up to the chest.

I can still see him downstream from me

his line glistening in the morning light

gliding out into the bubbling waters

"Fish the deadwaters by the rocks", he would tell me.

The sensation of the end of a fishing rod bending suddenly is an experience that escapes words in any language.

My rod would suddenly bend and I'd scream with sheer joy at the thrill...

"Keep your pole up!" he'd yell, "that one's gonna be a heller!"

I'd yell at him the same way

and we laugh out loud with our heads tipped back sending the sound back to the one that granted us such happiness, in appreciation of the wonders of

communication......

At the end of the day, exhausted.

We'd clamour back up stream through the alders

toward the campsite.

I could feel the tired satisfaction within and

I could see it in his eyes.

His eyes emited a warm spiritual glow

a reverence for the gifts of life and a love for me, his grandson.

A love for the happiness he was able to share with me passing on a bond of love from generation to generation.

I still come here these days, long after he's passed,

to listen to his voice in the waters bubbling over the rocks, knowing that those times were as close to perfection as I will ever experience in a lifetime.

The waters still rolling along tirelessly through time leaving behind precious gifts and constantly bringing new ones to life.

The stories of millions of lives under those stones

speaking of thier peaceful rest.

I grab the fat little hand of my four year old son,

pull him up close, look him in the eye and he knows!

Yeah he knows why we are by that stream listening to those waters of life rushing over the stones.

The lines of communication are like those waters over the stones.................

They're never ending when they are seasoned with LOVE!