whisperings

The village of Hymers is very small. Far from the city, it nests, snug into surrounding lands of field and forest, tucked down into the Whitefish River valley. The County Museum (open on Tuesdays) was built of sturdy stone. Being old and worn and ready to rest its feet among the rusting farm machinery of the front lawn, the Museum building did not mind the lack of visitors; but yawned and waved to its young cousin across the road, The Whitefish Valley School. Being young and eager to listen and learn, the school did not mind its halls and classrooms filled up daily with carefree, chattering children.
      The road to Hymers snuck away from Highway 508, slid downhill, and curved around a bend before it passed the County Museum and crossed the Whitefish River bailey bridge, where travelling cars rattled and banged the thick bridge boards. The road slowed down as it passed the Whitefish Valley School (being mindful of the children), then continued at a sedate pace, past the Postal Office, Town Hall (very small), and the Farm and Feed store, then away it tore up the hill, shaking aside its fill of dust, and un-fashionable potholes as it hurried to meet its paved and prouder cousin, Highway 595.
     Back in the village, below the bridge, the Whitefish River flowed: a laughing river, wearing a cloak of willow wands and scarlet dogwood stems. In winter the river was frosted and frozen, but teams of travelling husky dogs, pulling swift- sliding sleds in the yearly river race, could hear the water, still chuckling softly deep beneath the ice. When spring arrives at last, the river awoke and tossed aside the icy sheets from its bed, so it could leap and laugh loudly, and bounce from boulder to boulder. Kissed by rains, the rising, splashing water urged the wet-loving willow wands to swell their catkin buds, full and silver-furry. Now bloomed the first flower; bright marsh-marigolds, who loved to get their green petticoats wet. They turned their shining yellow faces to the sun. Marigold bracelets graced the river’s arms, adorned her dress, trimmed with foam and watercress, and diamonds borrowed from the sun. The scarlet stems of dogwood, in such hurry to see, urged out their own leaf buds with glee, and the willow showered golden pollen so gracefully upon the dancing bride.
     Birds, fresh from winter sojourns now compete, now meet with call and song, display and dance, to mate and nest. In the village houses, sleepy children groan and wake, urged by the early sun and songs of eager birds. Too loud! Try stay in bed, pulling pillow over sleepy head; won’t work.
     And now to school they go, fast: not slow; adorning the dusty road with coats of colours bright, bags of books and treasures to show and tell. Say farewell; the littlest ones from parents pushed and urged into the care of teachers, calm and brave; told to behave, then free to play. When morning is done, a bell rings then the school erupts once more; children everywhere adore to shout and run.
     And all about this rhythm, daily goes the Whitefish River. She does not care; dancing by day and night with sun or moon, greeting woodland friends who come to drink and sink paws, hooves, beaks into her shallows. She seeks only the timeless call and lure of Whitefish Lake, into whose arms she flows, embraced, and pulled into a deeper mystery…

Tags: river, village, whitefish, willow