River Rocks

Last night the boys came to stay overnight, a last chance before school starts next Wednesday. Usually, we watch a movie and eat popcorn together. This time they told me they just wanted to talk.

We discussed many things: recent adventures, aspirations, upsets, and the unsettling risks caused by the ongoing pandemic. One grandson is 13, fully vaccinated and feeling mostly happy about joining his friends again in person. The other is 10; he solemnly reminded me that he has bronchial issues but is unable to get vaccinated yet. He expressed feeling anxious about his reentry into onsite learning. As I listened to his concerns it was hard to get my head around the fact that youngsters his age are thinking about their mortality.

My current Library Book Club selection is Being Mortal by Atul Gawande. In it he discusses the fact that many older adults live alone but have not worked out how they can remain independent as they continue to age. He says that most of us will experience “unfixables” as we face the unavoidable decline toward the end of life. Will we be able to avoid the frightening possibility of having to choose between neglect and institutionalization? Not an easy read but has made me determined to remain realistic as I close in on the later part of a seventh decade. It doesn’t seem fair that my grandson who is only in his first decade should have to worry about catching a deadly virus.

This morning after breakfast the boys joined me on my usual walk, extending it to include a dirt access road along the Russian River. Unmanicured, among other things it sports bamboo groves, clusters of Naked Ladies, and views of a much-narrowed river. Eventually we made our way down to its edge where the boys dipped their pretend bamboo fishing poles into the water. Noticing some prettily colored river rocks, the older grandson retrieved them and held them up for to me to enjoy.

For a couple hours our world was simple, sunshine warmed and happy. Our laughter was uninterrupted by concern, our thoughts light as the breeze that followed us, our hearts beating in unison with play our sole purpose. Arriving back home the youngest stated, we had fun. He was pleased, settled in joy, seemingly calmed by our little adventure. As I ruffled his hair, I wanted to gather him up, to keep him safe from any harm.

The river rocks were tucked away in my pocket to be added to others collected elsewhere: rocks marked with curls and spirals from the Black Sands Beach near Shelter Cove on the coast; greenstone from the side of a hill in Placer County; obsidian from a hike in Mammoth Lakes; a flat, jagged rock from the ground in front of my oldest daughter’s storage unit in Modoc County. She met her mortality three years ago next month.

I’ll keep the rocks from our walk at the Russian River to remind me of carefree moments spent with my grandsons at a time when our troubled world threatens to overwhelm all of us.