Between the ages of five and ten, I lived with my family in Orono , Maine
Orono sits and the junction of the Penobscot and Stillwater Rivers Colorado , and from the shore one can see the fast current roil the surface down the middle of the river.
One morning, when I was perhaps nine and my brother seven, we decided that we were going to walk uptown just for something to do. This would seem unusual to us now, but as children we roamed that small town with a surprising amount of freedom. We were well acquainted with uptown. It was really one street, named Main Street of course, up a gentile hill less than half a mile from our house. Our school was there, and we walked to it every school day.
Fishing polls, bobbers and hooks had arrived the Christmas before, and they had never been used. Since the high bridge over the Stillwater river was at the east end of Main Street , close to everything else, it seemed like we could give them a good try-out by dangling our lines off the bridge. Mother issued the standard warnings: “don’t be gone too long,” “keep away from the bank of the river,” and most importantly “don’t go across the bridge to the opposite side.” Legend had it that numerous children had been lost on those steep and muddy banks on the opposite side.
Off we went. Our first stop was the hardware store. We walked up and down the aisles, checking everything out. The shovels got special attention, because the one we had at home had a broken handle and we thought that Dad should buy a replacement so that we could do some more digging in our back yard fort. Finally we bought a jar of those little red artificial bate-ball things to attract the fish.
It was early afternoon by the time we walked out on the Stillwater bridge. We inspected the situation. The water was a long way down. Iron-gray folds of current moved passed the pilings. Out on the river, away from the shelter of hills and trees, the breeze chilled us. So we quickly decided to skip the fishing part of our plan.
To kill some more time, we went across the bridge to Webster Park. Even though we were not supposed to cross the bridge, we figured that by staying away from the river bank we were well within the spirit of our mother’s admonitions, if not in compliance with all the details. This decision was so obvious to us that it didn’t even require discussion.
Webster park had some large trees and lush grass, and we sat in the afternoon sun sheltered from the wind. After a while we got tired of the birds and squirrels, and also we could feel that it was getting toward dinner time. So we got up, picked up our stuff, and headed back across the river toward town and home.
Our little house at the bottom of Pine Street had become a busy place. At three O’clock, my parents had become worried. At four O’clock, they had called the police. The police confirmed that several shop-owners had seen us, and one person even reported seeing two young boys crossing the bridge. So by the time we could see down Pine Street to our house, three police cars lined the curb. We were in big trouble.
We slinked through the back door with our tail between our legs. We couldn’t imagine what kind of punishment awaited us. Our parents didn’t use corporal punishment much, but a good spanking might not be out of the question. In a few seconds the policemen, our father, and finally our mother realized we were there.
Silence. But then the most amazing thing happened. My mother jumped up, hugged us both, shoed us up the stairs and told us to stay there.
We could hear the adults talking in the hall. There was laughter, and we heard a policeman say “Well, looks like we don’t have to drag the river.” And for us, we puzzled over our new discovery. We had been in big trouble a number of times, and taken our punishment. But here, the biggest thing that we had probably ever done wrong, and every one was so happy to see us. The world of adults was such a puzzling place.
© 2015 Frank Kearns
© 2015 Frank Kearns
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