Dad caned the canoe through the whitewater run,
Too low for the motor, just muscle and sun.
Eleven miles upriver, the long, patient way,
To a cabin on the bank where the log booms lay.
Mama in the bow with a smile and a laugh,
Passing out snacks like she always had.
No fear in her eyes, not a flicker of doubt,
Even when a mouse ran clear up her pants leg—she laughed it out.
Those were the days of our youth, my friend,
When the river was wide and time didn’t bend.
No phones, no wires, no reasons to run,
Just a river, a fire, and the rise of the sun.
We swam in the current, we fished till dark,
Played ourselves tired, left bruises and marks.
Carried water in buckets from the cold spring nearby,
Felt rich as kings with the world passing by.
Fiddleheads steaming, trout fresh and bright,
Salt pork sizzling in the soft noon light.
Lunch on a gravel bar, sky overhead,
Coleman stove humming where our stories were fed.
Those were the days of our youth, so clear,
When the simple things were all we held dear.
No clocks on the wall, no lines to be drawn,
Just the sound of the river carrying us on.
Now the years move quicker than that old canoe,
But I still hear the water, still see it all true.
That cabin still stands in the back of my mind,
Built out of love, salt smoke, and time.
Yeah, those were the days, and they never fade,
They live in the choices our young hearts made.
If heaven’s a place I someday arrive,
I hope there’s a river I can paddle upriver again—
Just alive.