THE STREAMER NEWSLETTER

Streamer: Spring 1999

This article originally appeared in the January 13, 1999 issue of The Boston Globe and is reprinted with permission. We are always delighted to hear or read about someone's favorite spot on the Charles, and we like to share those thoughts with other river lovers. If you have an essay, poem, drawing or photo reflecting your particular attachment to the river, please submit it to: Streamer Editor, CRWA, 2391 Commonwealth Ave., Auburndale, MA 02466. Written material should not exceed 550 words.

On the commute home from my busy teaching job, I merge onto Route 128. Hoping for a break in the traffic, I check my rear view. Seconds later I'm accelerating and then quickly turn my head to get a daily peek at my spot, a bend in the Charles River.

I have never walked there because I'm usually exhausted and always late. Instead I satisfy myself with a brief glance from the car. But I've watched the scene build. A few years ago a tree toppled into the Charles and lodged itself in the bend. The bulk of the tree lay underwater but one large branch protruded, pointing east. It taught me the direction the water took.

The tree rapidly collected detritus in its eddies. There were dead leaves, bits of green algae, pollen, scum, and trash. Some days I would see a bird and imagined that the tree held its share of bugs. I knew this tree had become a haven, birds in its dry branches, fish in its drowned branches.

My daily glance at this resolute tree and its collection became a comfort, a landmark I could count on. I began to hang a worry or a thought on that tree as the river hung her baggage. This place is where I left work and came home.

I hung there the anguish of a student weeping over a failing grade and my frustration with a bright child so disorganized that his work did not survive the day. I dropped there my fear for the student suspended for fighting as well as my attempts at soothing the anger and belligerence of a student bent on confrontation. I gingerly placed there the grief for the child who had lost his mother to cancer. I dumped the lesson poorly planned as well as a festering disagreement among my colleagues. I tried to abandon there the thought of 95 thick lab reports jammed in my bag in need of correction.

I decorated that tree with other, lighter school thoughts, too: the packed room of students happily immersed in ramps and carts and the "I get it" of a student redoing her calculations. I posted there the pride for a student who worked through countless drafts to arrive at a sharp, cohesive piece. I showered that tree with thanks for parents who helped with homework, field trips, supplies, and fund-raising. I placed there a deep respect for my team, a funny dedicated bunch. The messy, agonizing, compelling load was dumped. I felt lighter, all these pieces tossed to the river and its tree.

At the bend, I collected my life as a mother and wife, a checklist for the transition. Who had practice to meet? Was the chicken defrosting? Could I get home with enough daylight left to walk the dogs? Would I run on the treadmill tonight? What about those lab reports?

And the tree carried my load and its own solidly until the spring, when it rained for weeks on end. Everyday, the river rose until the branch tips disappeared under the fast-moving water. For days, all I could see was the dark water, pawing at the banks that had been dry mud.

It was with dread that I peeked. Day after day there was no sign of the tree. My eyes began searching for another place a rock, the sweep of wetlands something to become my focus, a nature statement to check in with each day. Nothing presented itself, so I came back to the river itself this meander in the Charles.

Eventually the water subsided, and to my surprise one day the tips of the tree emerged. Each day revealed a new length of limb and twig. Finally the entire branch was released to the air and, once again, pointed east.

I resumed my tree watching with a sense of reprieve. I've been toying with the idea of finding my way down there for a closer look. Some large items have arrived recently. It took me a few days to figure out that an entire garden gate was stuck, harbored in its branches. Now it has been replaced by a colorful orange-and-turquoise ball.

I know the flooding will come again and eventually the tree must go, buoyed by the water, around the bend and forever out of sight. For now, though, I will savor remaining tree moments of my daily commute.