Dragged Down Through a River

Tony Minnick Alienated Hero Mr. Kovarik Memoir

May 14, 2010

Dragged Down Through a River Each pebble shone with a fiery, iron color as the brisk stream rushed upon it.

Such tiny pieces of debris are carried downstream by the current, sometimes so harshly.

When looking at the Jack’s Fork River from above, this relationship between what is feeble and what is dominant is very plain to see. However, sometimes I choose not to think about a moment’s complexity until it is long since past.

My little brother of ten stood upstream, his eyes glazed over as he stared out into the water. He appeared startled when I called out, “Come on down and check out this honker,” holding the biggest crawfish caught on the day. The meaty crawdad twitched between my fingers as I held it firmly behind its algae-encrusted claws. Will smiled and jogged down the bank to meet me.

“Whoa, you have to show that one to Mom and Dad,” he exclaimed.

“Nah, I have you as my witness,” I said, and then both of us walked in opposite directions to continue hunting.

I am always the most competitive when it comes to catching crawdads. I typically look for them for the longest amount of time, and eventually find the biggest one. Catching this particular creature did not fill me with pride, but only made me feel comforted in knowing that I had the biggest one.

Crawdad hunting had long since become our family tradition during our annual river vacations down in southern Missouri. If we were not floating, skipping rocks, or

fishing for bluegill, we were bent over with our hands in the river, lifting up the largest rocks in hopes of finding the biggest crawfish.

Less than an hour later, I heard the oncoming sound of footsteps in the distance and looked up to see my brother panting.

“You have no idea how long I chased this guy,” he said, with a giant crawdad held in his hand. The funniest grin took shape on his sun burnt face as he pushed the creature toward me, making sure I took it all in. He had gone from being squeamish while holding even the smallest crawfish to catching the contender for biggest of the day.

He plopped it down in the minnow bucket, where our past catches wrestled in a tangled mess, becoming a blur in which only the largest two were distinguishable. Will stood tall, feeling proud in the eyes of his older brother. He beamed at me in the corner of my vision and I looked away. I quickly glanced into the bucket and realized that, much to my dread and yet also anticipation, his catch was the biggest of them all, its glossy, orange tail making its way around the bucket in an intimidating fashion.

I quickly nudged past my brother and pulled his crawdad out of the bucket, on the outside seemingly unafraid of being pinched by the monster. I held him up in the sunlight, as if it added further perspective, and claimed, “He doesn’t seem to be nearly as big.”

Will protested, “Wait, what?”

“Yea, I don’t know. It doesn’t seem we can declare a winner just yet.” In an impulsive instant my arm arched back and I hurled it away and into the river’s powerful current. The crawdad splashed into the stream where the jagged rocks distorted the surface water, making the crawdad a small piece of debris in a great blur.

Several tears dropped off of my brother’s chin. Of course, I only glanced out of the corner of my eye to witness this, for I could not bear to face him with eye contact.

Instead of immaturely acting out with a punch or a scream, he held himself in place. We both knew that the crawdad was gone and the gravity of what I had done seeped into the atmosphere almost immediately. As always, Will’s reverence for me put him in a situation in which he could not express the sadness he felt as he softly cried. I imagined my reaction if he had done the same to me. I would have shown my power. I would have acted out. I would have taken the whole bucket of crawdads and dumped them into the current. I am six years older than Will.

I did not think about the complexity of this situation until later. In the discomforting silence of the moment, I stupidly said, “Well, at least I can be your witness on this one.” My words carried no significance.

“Tony, why did you do that?” Will asked.

“I don’t know. It’s not really a big deal is it? You don’t really care about that now do you?” I asked him, once again taking advantage of my power over my always respecting brother.

“No, not really,” he said, pulling back his tears and starting back towards his hunting spot upstream.

I did not follow him, but instead stood in place for several minutes. Then I sat down on a rock for several minutes. Then I reached into the bucket and grabbed my biggest crawdad, this time unconcerned with it pinching me because I was disgusted with myself. I ripped its claw off of my thumb and hurled the crawfish into the cluster of maple trees just beyond the river’s bank. The current’s tempo increased as a gust of wind

pulled it along. At one point I was knocked off my rock by this same wind, strewn awkwardly on the bank like a helpless infant. Sometimes I feel so helpless when I am at the mercy of something bigger than me.