Molding
“Then was I like a child that cries, but crying, knows his father near: And what I am beheld again—what is, and no man understands; and out of darkness came the Hands that reach through nature, molding men.”
That’s from my favorite poem, In Memoriam by Alfred, Lord Tennyson and it was written in 1849 as a requiem for the poet’s Cambridge friend Arthur Henry Hallam. It took him seventeen years to complete.
I realize it lands a bit on the morbid side but there are parts enough that I think articulate perfectly some things about the photo up top and the ones coming after.
See those logs? There was, at least, two dozen broken, jagged limbs smoothed and razor-tipped by eons spent floating in that lake. Which meant they could, any one of them, impale the careless and bleed them out like a stuck pig.
Which, of course, meant the boys were irresistibly drawn to the danger and yelling for rope.
Rope.
How else are you going to tie together the water-logged timber to build the raft and cross the lake, hleewwww?
See the big guy in the back? That’s Professor. That’s what I call him because he’s the only kid I’ve ever met with whom I can talk tech with and who not only gets it, he…well…actually, I think he’s solved the mystery of cold fusion but isn’t going to share it with anyone because we’re mortal and he’s not. Anyway, Professor, like the rest of the guys came out of the proverbial woodwork and set themselves to the task of constructing the raft. A sight to behold because it took no explanation among them. Which might shock some of the ladies reading this, but won’t even register with a single man. Rope. Logs. Lake. You do the math.
This is Konnor.
And I don’t mean just in the photograph. I mean in what the photograph captured: an intention he seems rarely to be without. This raft was going to cross the Atlantic if he had anything to say about it.
Confederates. Compatriots. Camarades, all.
Don’t let the charming smiles fool you.
Nor the look of kind disdain. These mindless monkeys were in heaven. I couldn’t get enough of their fun or their built-in ability to tackle the task because it encouraged me all the more that they have, built-in, what it takes to tackle life.
Without a cell phone.
Or an iPod.
Or a Blackberry.
Or an Xbox.
When they walked they were looking up. Not down. Not scrolling down to check for a message, an email, or what William Powers in his book Hamlet’s Blackberry calls “a love pellet. I thought of you. How are you? This will make you laugh. Don’t break this chain. FYI, because you’re part of the team, the endeavor, the group, my life. Meet your new nephew—here’s the sonogram. You will like this YouTube clip. You will like this joke. You are alive.”
They were free.
And on their way to the other side of the Atlantic, guided by the Hands that reach through nature, molding men.”
Go, boy.
Excellent capture my friend, these ARE the good ole days.
And thanks for including the Blackberry mention, I know how that must have pained you.
lol you’re welcome, John.