June 8, 1953 - Such a Spot

I have felt the heat more today than any other day this year, if not other years. I am now lying on my tummy on the grass in the back yard with Betty beside me gnawing on a ham bone. There is a slight breeze which cools the perspiration on my face neck and the sun peeks horizontally through the maple leaves. The plum trees that were a mass of froth a little over a month ago are now adorned with lacy, gnawed leaves. The sparse fruit is small, hard, and green.

Yesterday was the library staff picnic at the Gleaves' place on the Meramec near Moselle. It is a grand place, much like I would plan for myself. The two-story cabin of logs and stone sits on a hill at the base of which on three sides runs the river. The slope before the house is clear and the view across the valley and the hills beyond is perfect. These gentle hills are completely clothed in trees with a swath or two cut for the power lines. The road leads down the hill and around the curve, deceptively hiding the width of land beyond to the river. We set out to walk down to the spot to swim and it was a wonderful walk. It led between two fields of graceful wheat, clumps of scrub oak, open fields already shorn of their crop with an occasional tree lending a little shade to the open road. Down the ridge to our right we caught glimpses of the limpid green river (that describes it to me) and these glimpses set the dog frantic. She was whipped with the heat and the beating sun - her tongue was purple and her jowels hung with foam. She grabbed at the spots of shade but only until we had passed on. She admitted the sight & feel of the river when we reached it were reward enough.

The beach was wide and rocky, deep and spotted with willow clumps. The opposite bank was abrupt and covered with growth, flat, leading off to farther hills. An immense sycamore stood up against the brilliant sky like a spire. The water was teasing by calm-appearing, masking the current that was difficult to walk against. The water was cool and kind and lovely as I have always known river water to be. We found that swimming up the stream as well as we could we made no distance; we simply held our own against this tireless traveler.

The dog's antics in the water were something joyous to see. Such lack of inhibition and such abandon I wish were mine. She leapt out of the water again and again as a porpoise does. She took on the wild attitude she does when she feels free and spacious. Once in hearing me call Bob from the opposite bank she thought I had called her, and she started across. When she encountered the strange force her eyes became apprehensive but she swam determinedly and gained a footing not far downstream from where she had started.

After we had returned to the house & eaten I walked down the slope behind the house and found a really idyllic spot. I came suddenly upon a 30 foot rocky bluff rising directly from the river. I sat upon its edge and dreamed and absorbed it all. Across the river, willows hung dejectedly over the water all along the bank. Upstream a bit a narrow slough ducked behind a slender finger of land. The late sun sparkled on the ruffled water. Below me lazy turtles rose to the surface, floated downstream and then sank to reappear at the original spot. As I sat there, part of the scene I witnessed was a lovely sampling of nature's color wheel. A kingfisher softly blue, swept low over the river and perched on a bare branch below me. A brilliant flash of red became a cardinal followed by his more modest mate. A minute later a spot of speckled yellow flew from bank to bank, a finch I would guess.

I would love to own such a spot where I could dream alone and for hours. I will someday, I'm sure. I want a hill, a view, a river, some cows to love to look at and some horses to love to ride. I really believe that is the ultimate of my mortal ambitions.