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 spiri
