We almost named our third child Huckleberry. I thought I would call him Huck and invoke fearlessness and adventure for his life. I was thinking of river swagger and infinite boyhood. I settled for the much more serious name Henry. Alone with him though in those early days, I whispered “my little Huckleberry” whenever I shushed his hunger and every other need of his baby self. But Henry never became Huck, even at 11 now, the nickname just won’t stick. He is Henry, the youngest and the king in our house, and as long as no one dares to call him Hank, I am happy.
Sometimes, when we are out in the world, particularly beside the ocean, a flame of Twain flickers in Henry and he is all troublemaker, free and daring on the lovely side of foolishness. In the summer, he is endlessly barefoot and covered in sand, red-eyed from staring underwater, and always salty and sunburned. He stands in the shore break watching and waiting for the waves to crest with tiny, frothy peaks. He readies himself for the action, the hurl and the spin that he will let take him. He doesn’t seem to mind the rough hands of the ocean: his true companion every summer of his life.
When he was little, he rode his board in the shore break, standing precariously letting the waves lift him to glory then toppling him into sand and grit, in the skids of the shallows. He always seemed surprised to fall, shocked really that the sea could be so unsteady. But he was never bitter or angry, only determined to play, to ride, to swim. He’s like all the boys down by the sea, boys thriving in the sun; uncivilized, running wild, swimming for the horizon, conjuring giants to surf, courting hurricanes and daring to dive deeper and deeper as if treasure could be found or Atlantis or some mermaid mirage.
I imagine river boys like Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer aren’t much different.
When we arrive in Hannibal, Missouri, I am on the lookout for Twain’s boys. The quiet town has preserved its history well, but lacks the spirit of Twain. I don’t mean to say barefooted boys in overalls should be running wild on Main Street with widows and drunken fathers yelling and chasing. I am not looking for costume dramas on the streets or nefarious robbers in the graveyard or escaped slaves hiding on the riverbank. But sometimes places get a little lost in their history, in the preservation of houses and furniture, knickknacks and plaques, statues and memorials. For a moment, on the streets of Hannibal, I am sad. I have one of those realizations that all fiction readers have when reality isn’t nearly as good as the book.
Still, in Hannibal, my boys pay homage to Tom Sawyer by painting a few strokes on a white picket fence and we let the breezes from the Mississippi River cool us as we walk in the footsteps of Twain. I know with certainty that boys like Henry are the ones that have to keep the spirit of Twain alive with rambunctious rebellion and uncivilized abandon sometimes in their lives. I expect sometimes like Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, Henry will get lucky in those endeavors and sometimes he will not; my only hope is that he will always learn something of value no matter which way the river turns.
Wow...you somehow always manage to stir up feelings I’ve not had in years... maybe the nostalgia in the words... or the vivid pictures you paint that spark something in me that feels peaceful or inspirational... I’m not even really able to describe it... it always feels Reminiscent of some part of my childhood or my children’s childhood!!! But it’s just so good... ❤️🙏 thank you... I really need these !