River Portraits > My River

By Pamela Powell

My river. In high school we ran 'the bridges' as cars honked past, but better, far better, was to sit in the stroke position in our boat of four, to lean forward in my worn gray t-shirt and pull hard, the muscles in my arms tightening as I leaned forward then moved the oar through the bottle brown water. That was the seventies and the water looks cleaner now as my daughter pulls pebbles from the edges and throws them back in. We're sitting and watching the Head of the Charles on a summery fall day, listening to the voice of the announcer at the Cambridge Boat Club, and the clip of oars in the oarlocks, splash of paddle, lazy wheeling of a hawk overhead. The river wends its way through the city of my childhood, the city I have returned to, the way it winds through my mind, my memory, my past. My son sails on its open expanse from the Boston side. We roller blade along its banks. I ride my bike into Boston with my sweetie to catch the train to the ocean, passing people of many shades dressed in saffron and rose and turquoise, listening to a concert of Indian music. I remember Arthur Fiedler conducting here at the half-shell, his snowy head above the crowd, hot summer nights. I remember staring at the Citgo sign from the back of our Peugot station wagon, the triangle growing and shrinking, red and blue, an emblem of our city. I remember the Charles frozen and white, blue and sparkling, cold and misty in the early morning. Now I ride the train over the bridge to Dorchester to teach, and it is that glimpse of river at 7 a.m. that sometimes is what I need to give me hope.