It’s a perfect June morning. Mother wakes me with a gentle tap on my shoulder. Sunshine is pooling softly on my bedroom floor. “Wake up, Rosalie. We’re going to see Grandma today”. This is the sweetest news my six year old ears could hope to hear. This means a day of fun with Margie, my adored cousin, who is just older enough than I am to fascinate me. I worship the ground that this daring and imaginative cousin walks on. I will do anything with her; I will do anything for her.
Grandma, my aunt Rilla and my mother have big plans to paint the bedrooms in my grandparents’ farmhouse. Who wants two little mischievous girls underfoot? We are chased out of the house to amuse ourselves in the golden summer morning. The world is bursting with joy, moist and redolent with life.
There seems to be no end of things to do, and we do them all. We visit Poppy, our grandfather who is busy, as usual, coaxing his vegetables and flowers along in his huge garden. We drag dolls and blankets into a field of tall grass and create homes for our imaginary families. We play on Margie’s swing set and ride her tricycle over the cool damp dirt floor of the garage. We trek down the hill to the pasture to check on Nellie the cow. We wander up the lane to the huge mossy rock we have claimed for our own, and clamber to the top of it. After all of this activity, we are suddenly bored and at loose ends.
“I know!” Margie is awestruck by the greatest idea ever. “Let’s go fishing!”
“OK!” I agree, encouraged by her enthusiasm, “But where?”
“Oh, we can fish in the swamp. I’ve been there lots of times with Poppy.”
My conscience twinges, but only for a moment. We are forbidden to leave the area close to the house. There are often bears in these woods. They come down from the mountains in the summertime to eat the blackberries.
But I will go with Margie’s idea. How can I resist her? However, without real fishing poles, we must be inventive. First we gather two sticks for the poles. Then we make a mental list of other items needed to finish up the project. No one notices as we sneak into the house to gather these things: string, safety pins, paper, scissors and a brown crayon to create worms. We wouldn’t think of digging up anything as squishy as a real worm. We work quietly in the yard, fashioning two perfect fishing poles.
No one is watching as we creep stealthily to the edge of the woods and find the path that curves into the dark undergrowth of the forest. It’s a short walk to the swamp, past hovering ferns and huge Douglas Firs that dwarf two small girls. Margie is confident; I’m not so sure. Standing on the grassy bank at last, we cast our “fishing poles” into the murkiness of the swamp and wait, but nothing happens. Suddenly Margie has another one of her brilliant ideas.
“See that mossy log over there? Why don’t you step out on it and see if you can catch anything?”
“OK,” I respond obediently. I step out onto this slimy and uncertain surface.
It doesn’t take long. I feel my feet slipping out from under me, catch my balance for a second, and then lose it again. Tumbling into the water, I fall down and down for ever so long, my eyes wide open in terror. I watch as the bank slips past me, a snarl of forbidding
underwater growth. It seems like an eternity until my feet spring off the bottom and I pitch upward toward the light.
I break through and gulp air. Margie is leaning toward me, her hand outstretched. “Here, Rosalie, take my hand.” I reach for her.
That is the last thing either of us remember until we are walking back on the path to the house. Then the full impact of what has just occurred hits me. I begin to scream in uncontrollable terror. Dripping and drenched with swamp water, I can’t stop myself. Frantically, Margie urges me in vain, “Ssh! They’ll know what happened!”
Our mothers and grandparents come running; no doubt my screams can be heard for miles. I’m gathered in their arms and comforted, as is Margie, who is just as horrified as I am.
No one, including ourselves, can figure out how she pulled me out. I am soaking wet and I match her in weight. It is a physical impossibility. Later, Poppy takes a twelve foot pole and tries to find the bottom of the swamp, but he can’t reach it. We will marvel over this miracle for the rest of our lives.
Do you believe in angels?
