Well Chosen - Erie Canal Fiction

I held the hand of my grandson, Owen, as we walked the towpath, not because I sensed danger but because it reminded me of doing the same with my father. Every Sunday morning we’d walk and talk, sometimes in farm fields, often down old logging roads but usually where Owen and I were today, the Erie Canal. My dad loved the canal. He knew its history better than most historians. He could entertain scores of people with anecdotes and imagery of long ago and I welcomed every chance to ask him questions on our Sunday strolls.

We reached the spot I’d been guiding Owen towards, a waste weir that was still channeling overflow into a nearby creek. Spanning the canal at this point was a rickety wooden footbridge, the bane of my childhood. Crossing those wobbly planks meant I could explore fields and woodlots where I’d never been before, yet I was never able to shake the feeling there was equal value in staying put. Maybe it was the way my father offered me the choice. I hoped to channel his spirit during my walk and talk with Owen today.

I sat down on a capstone. Beneath me a steady stream of canal water drained into a nearby creek. I motioned Owen to join me and with no effort he popped up onto the smoothly carved stone, swinging little legs that no longer touched the ground. I began my story, just as my dad had, 60 years ago.

I started, “I bet you wonder what’s on the other side of that bridge. I know I do, and I know your Papa did too. But neither of us ever crossed the bridge to find out.”

Owen’s ears perked up with the mention of his Papa. He loved hearing stories about his great granddad.

“Every kid that comes here has to decide whether they’ll cross the bridge or wait here on the tow path. Some kids are voyagers Owen, some are witnesses.” I explained.

“The voyagers cross the bridge and many find wonderful things on the other side, but they may also discover trouble. Papa said once a huge wasp nest fell on the path across the canal, just as his friends reached the other side. They were stung from head to toe and had to jump in the muddy water to escape the wasps.”

Owen’s eyes widened.

“But then again sometimes they’d come back with handfuls of ripe berries or gigantic red apples! They brought back stories of forts they built and streams teeming with fish. It made it hard for Papa to stay on this side of the bridge when he learned that. Hard for me too,” I shared.

“Why didn’t you both go over,” Owen asked?

“Because we chose to be witnesses, not voyagers,” I said.

Owen’s mouth twisted, but before he could speak, I continued,

“I can tell you’re confused sweetie. Let me explain more. Life moves us from one place to another. Just like a canal. It’s all about decisions you make and the role you decide to play.”

“If you cross the bridge, you become a voyager. The wonders of the world will unfold before you, everything good, all that is bad and anything that falls in between. Life will steer you this way and that. Down one path you’ll be rewarded. Turn down the next and it may bring a punishment. But voyagers always choose their course.”

Owen seemed restless and unsure.

“The other choice is to become a witness. People who witness get knowledge through a kind of secret power. They can see and understand things that others cannot. A witness chooses to stay still and let the world come to them. That’s why they can be trusted with this special type of vision. But here’s the catch kiddo. You can’t be both. It’s one or the other.”

I continued, “Owen, there’s no wrong choice. It’s up to you. Either way, I’ll be very proud of you. Your daddy made a choice, so did your uncle Tim and aunt Annie. And your sister Audrey came here three years ago.”

“What did they choose Gramma?” he asked.

“I can’t tell you. Only they can,” I replied.

Owen took his time. He walked to the edge of the canal and shook the handrail on the bridge. He stepped back, looked at me, then cast a pensive glance up and down the canal. I was impressed with how seriously he weighed the options. He took a final glance skyward before turning to face me.

“Gramma, I’m a voyager,” he said confidently. With that he stepped onto the bridge, tentatively at first, then with a burst of excitement he danced across the planks. He waved to me from the other side and I blew him a reassuring kiss. My grandson was quickly out of sight behind the dense brush, beyond my watchful gaze. The magic would now commence.

“Come up!” I called out. “He’s chosen to cross.”

Suddenly, the water stopped flowing through the waste weir. I stood up in anticipation, never fully prepared for the next part of this ceremony. I wasn’t as frightened as I was the first time, back when my father gave me the choice, but my palms were sweaty, and I could feel my pulse quicken.

With no current in the water the surface of the canal became a glassy mirror. I took a deep breath and stepped up to the bank, looked down, and there they were. Faces, like answers surfacing inside an old Magic Eight Ball, came slowly into view. A young girl was first. She smiled as her visage drew near. Next, my father’s face surfaced. He nodded approvingly at me. A new face, maybe a boy who walked the mules rose up alongside. They remained no more than flowers pressed under a shiny veneer, until like popcorn at peak heat, full faces, complete bodies, long ropes, whiskey barrels, and wooden boxes roiled raucously from the bottom of the prism.  Horses whinnied and ship bells clanged. The entire canal woke up and went back to work. The air grew thick with the smell of grease from a stove top, manure from the mules, and sweat drenched clothing. After all these years the arrival is still a thing of dreams.

“Hello!” I said. “It’s good to be back. Who’s keeping an eye on Owen?”

A young man floating on his back mid canal tossed a glance towards a figure scampering up the opposite bank. I caught sight of a little boy disappearing down the path Owen had taken.

“Thank you,” I responded. “It’s been a while. I should know not to worry.”

Dozens of untethered souls swirled above the canal, preparing to embody their once vibrant human forms. One by one, united as complete beings, they clamored up the canal’s banks to commence with chores. Children looked for turtle eggs and picked dandelion greens for their mothers, women emerged with dish towels and arm loads of pots needing a good scrub. Weather worn men pulled at branches, muttering their discontent on the shape of things along the banks. They grabbed setting poles to gather the cargo bobbing in the water. And my father found his way to the bridge where he assessed some wobbly planks.

“So, the lad’s a voyager is he?” inquired Padraig, a barge captain. He’d been organizing this menagerie since my first witness and it’s not a stretch to say we’d become familiar enough to converse freely.

“Yes, he’s chosen a life of adventure, we hope,” I replied.

“Beggin’ your pardon mam, but we long hoped he’d witness, like his sister and his pa” added Padraig.

“Well, we know the rules. He’s chosen to cross. This world of ours will never be seen by him and you and I will never get to walk in his shoes.” I reminded the captain.

 “Captain!” I hollered.

Over his left shoulder a barge, fully loaded with wheat crept close to his own, too close. But as quickly as it appeared it melted into its reflection and was gone, leaving bales to pop like corks as they raced back to the surface. The men moved their poles to capture the valuable bundles of grain, destined for mills downstream.

“Dad! How you coming on those boards?” I called out.

“There’s one here that’s likely to fail soon. I’ll search for a new one,” he said and with that he disappeared beneath the murky water.

Padraig’s wife, Minerva, asked if I gotten news from her sister in Buffalo, the one who’s been in the grip. The best I could do was tell her what I’d seen in the museum archives regarding the family who hired Teresa on as a domestic. It seemed to satisfy her knowing that most in Buffalo had been spared from cholera, only the whooping cough continued to scourge.

My father emerged from the prism with a plank just as the ghost boy who followed Owen came blasting out of the woods.

“He’s coming!” he screamed and he dove into the canal.

The departure was no different than throwing a light switch to off. In an instant they were gone, and my grandson could be seen approaching the other side of the bridge. I checked for any telltale signs of my recent visitors but all appeared to be in order.

Owen waved and I did the same. His smile had always been contagious and today it was purely captivating. I could hardly wait to hear what he had discovered but in an instant, there was a creak and a snap and he plunged into the water. The broken plank did in deed fail, dropping Owen into the canal. I ran to the bridge to reach down my hand but a force stopped me in my tracks, refusing to let me cross.

I saw his head go under a second time as his two little hands flailed to find something secure, something like Gramma’s arms wrapping around him, pulling him to safety. But I could only watch in horror as he went under a third time. I scrambled to find a long branch but they’d all been cleared. My heart screamed. I slid down the bank and still, a force prevented me from entering the water.

We were miles from anyone else. No one would make it here in time to save him. My brain insisted, “Please! Please! Please don’t let this child die!” I wailed like a banshee just as a bale of wheat shot from the bottom of the canal with Owen clinging tightly to the twine. He was alive and a wave of water moved the bale purposefully close to the bank where he grabbed onto roots and grasses. I got a hand on his arm and we both climbed onto the towpath, panting, out of breath.

I used my coat to cover his shivering little body. We lay on our backs, staring up at the blue sky, not speaking. I brushed away the hair and some mud off his forehead to kiss his cool damp skin. My arm lay over his chest, waiting for him to tell me what he needed. Minutes passed before he sat up and look out over the water.

“Gramma” he asked, “Am I still a voyager?”

“Of course you are sweetie, you’ll always be a voyager.” I reassured him as I pulled him closer to my side.

His head tilted, the way it always did when he was ready to tell me something important. “But Gramma you said I can’t be both. I crossed the bridge but I can see what you see too. What happens to me now?” he asked.

I answered him lovingly, “Now my little man, now you get introduced.”

*This story was written by J. Gostling for the Friends of Schoharie Crossing Blog, 2024. J. Gostling retains all rights to this work.

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