My dream of doing some writing

"That Day on the River"
Most of us are blessed in our lives to have even a few days that we can recall with clarity as having been perfect. One such day in my past has taken up permanent residence in my memory vault and I can pull it forth at will like a treasure to be gazed upon, handled carefully and savoured.
This particular day involved my sister, my father and I. It was in the middle of the week which gave us the added pleasure of feeling like we were playing hooky while everyone else was pursuing their commitments.
We awoke to a bright and cloudless morning with no specific plans in mind. As we sat around the breakfast table, someone suggested we take the boat out and enjoy some of the autumn weather on the water. The Winnipeg River behind my parent’s house beckoned to us to come and play and we gladly heeded the call.
We set out in our small aluminum boat with a thermos of coffee and some sandwiches. My father at the back, my sister in the middle and me in the front enjoying the spray from the waves which splashed up on us when they collided with the bow.
We basked in the warm fall day with no particular destination in mind but rather waiting to see what the day’s bounty would bring to us.
The camaraderie between we three was palpable that day. No timetable, no place to arrive at, our task simply to enjoy the ride.
My father pointed out various landmarks that he knew of from 50 years of living on the river. We pulled the boat up on an island that looked ripe with blueberries and sang loudly to keep the bears away while we picked. We explored a run down abandoned cabin, with rusty pots and a three legged table. We tried to imagine who had lived there and how it might have represented home and refuge to them with a comforting light in the window and fragrant beans simmering on the stove. We walked barefoot on the beach putting our toes in the water that still held the warmth of summer. We enjoyed our coffee and sandwiches around a campfire, noting how everything always tastes better when you are outside. My father told us stories about people he had known from bygone days.
The stories were peppered with sayings such as “the guy who built the sawmill was so handy if you gave him a ball of steel wool he’d knit you a stove” or one time when I was out in the boat “it was raining harder than a cow pissing on a flat rock”.
As the sun set we again took to the water, dangling fishing rods as we slowly made our way back. By the last part of the ride darkness had fallen and the moon painted a brilliant path across the river for us to follow home. We pulled the boat out of the water with a sense of quiet and contentment resting on our shoulders not realizing at the time that of all the times we had gone boating and there had been many, this day would always for some reason be different.
My father grew older as all men do and eventually was unable to operate a boat or even a car. Yet when I visited he would often smile and say to me “Remember that day we spent on the river?”