Once upon a time, many decades ago, a young boy, his father,
mother and sister took a trip to the north. It was autumn, and the leaves were
brown, red, gold and rust. It was the season of the year when much was dying or
going into hibernation. Frost was on the ground each morning. The days were
bright and warm. Many a pleasant hour was spent in a canoe on the lake. The
eyes of the night were clear and clean, and a full moon offered a well-lit path
for night hiking.
The family was taking a week long vacation, and friends had
loaned them their log cabin on the shore of a large and deep lake. The father
was finishing his doctoral studies, and he and his family needed a break from
such demands for a few days. So, the trip to the land of thick forests and
solid rocks was welcomed and much anticipated by one and all. Gone, for a few
days, were the demands that came from many directions.
The family had spent a lovely day on the lake, paddling
about and dipping in the cold autumn water. Dusk had joined them. Wood had been
cut with a razor sharp axe during the day. A match had been put to the tinder
and dry wood, and a red hot fire was crackling and simmering in the stone thick
fireplace.
The young boy was cool from the long day on the water, and
his mother had prepared a steaming hot bath to warm him to the core. The
daughter would soon follow him. Dinner was being cooked, the younger daughter
was sitting by the fire, and the boy was in the bath. The time came when the
young lad stepped out of the bath, and he ran, in his nakedness and with much
haste and hurry, to the fire to stay warm.
Night had fallen, candles and fire were the only light and
warmth in the cabin. A large window opened up a spacious view of the forest and
the lake from within the cabin. The young boy, as I said, dashed to the fire,
towels wound round him well, to the crackling warmth of the fire.
The father found all of this most interesting. He watched
the life and energy of the young boy sitting by the fire, eager to get warm.
There was something alive and real about all this. The father turned his head
and saw a reflection of the young boy in the large window. Whenever the boy
moved, the reflection in the window did the same.
The father had a camera (he often carried such a toy about
with him), and he had a thought. He took a few pictures of the boy by the fire
from a variety of angles, and the young boy was never shy about posing and
making faces. Then, he took pictures of the reflection of the boy in the
window. This meant, he would, in time, have four memories of the same
situation.
There was the living and animated young boy by the fire, the
reflection of the boy in the window, a photo of the boy by the red-hot fire and
a photo of a reflection of the young boy in the window. And, when the father
had done this, he thought of his studies and wondered what was more real and
really worth doing. He realized he spent much of his time writing about either
a photo of a reflection in a window, a photo of reality or reflections in the
window. Rarely, did he actually deal with reality.
The small boy was now warmed and dressed, and he sat down on
his father’s lap in a large rocking chair by the fire. The mother soon called
them for dinner. The four of them sat down near the thick wax candles and the
well-cut and crafted wood table and ate the full feast prepared for them.
All were soon tired, and they crawled under thick down
covers as the fire dimmed and dimmed and darkness welcomed all to another night
of sleep and slumber. Frost could be seen gathering on the window, but all were
warm and snug for the evening.
rsd