Sometimes our minds don’t think in lengthy, fluid passages. Sometimes, we have to think in snippets. Episodic Writing is one way we can capture a specific theme, hobby, pattern. What follows is an experiment in Episodic writing.
The first thing to do is think of an event, theme, person, activity, etc. that seems to repeat itself over time. In the following, I chose water, which isn’t that important in my life, but as I began to think about water, it has affected me in “snippets”.
Episodic Writing: Water Stories
I.
I promised my mother I’d wear a life jacket. She pointed out that I wasn’t a strong swimmer and told stories about nests of water moccasins in the Ozark Lakes. “What if you get bit? You’ll need a life jacket to keep you afloat. I mean you’ll be unconscious after they get hold of you and you’ll sink to the bottom and no one will ever see you.”
When it was time to swim off the beach of the lake, I couldn’t bring myself to wear the jacket. How stupid would I look to my friends? All they’d be able to see would be my head and that damn blue life jacket right below my ears.
Since I found it hard to lie to my mother I couldn’t just throw the life jacket on the beach and let it stay there. What if I did get caught in a nest of water moccasins? She’d haunt me “I told you to wear your life jacket. They might have been able to save you, life flight you to an anti-venom ward at a nearby hospital, if they’d been able to find your body floating on top of the water.”
That guilt would be too much. But I didn’t want to look like a dork on my senior trip. My friend Dana recognized my struggle. “Use your vest like shorts.”
And it worked. I put my legs through the armholes and rode the water like a bronco rider, my torso bobbing high above the water, legs hidden by the muddy lake. I could hop, I could swim, I could sit, but most importantly, I could be saved if I was bit by a nest of water moccasins.
II.
My mom and dad are swimming. The lady who is supposed to be watching isn’t. I want to be with my mommy. They don’t hear me yell. They are having fun in the deep end. I’m not supposed to go on that side. The cement is hot on my feet. They still don’t hear me. I jump. The water burns my throat, and that spot right behind my forehead. I keep falling. I feel my dad’s hand and my arms jerk. My mom is screaming. My dad is above me, keeps saying something, but I don’t understand. The cement is hot on my back.
III.
It’s always the same story. My mom trailing behind her dad and older sister as they waded into the Niangua River, fishing for supper. They were poor—hillbillies my dad always says. My mom’s dress is getting wet at the hem, waist. She keeps following. Sand and small pebbles are under her feet, between her toes. Her shoulders are wet. She keeps following. Water burns her nose. She feels herself screaming, but no one hears her. She doesn’t splash her arms. She just keeps falling under in slow motion. A hand reaches under, grabs her long red hair. She gasps and for the first time realizes how much bigger her sister is.
IV.
The Red Cross has little red floaties—they look like gravestones—for the kids to hold on to as they float on their bellies. My dad says that I’m too big for them. He said the best way to learn to swim is not to sink. He throws me in.
V.
When my dad went back to Camp Pendleton after his training in Japan, Okinawa, China, after he sat for two days in full combat gear off the coast of Vietnam, just waiting for the final order to go in, he was a Marine Life Guard—tan, dog-tags and whistle around his neck, a sharp-shooting combat grunt taking a holiday. When they asked him if he wanted to re-enlist, that his country needed him in Vietnam, he looked at the light bouncing off the water, his tanned shoulders and felt the sand between his toes and said, “No, I think I’ll stay right here.” It’s funny how sometimes water is what saves your life.
VI.
He tells me that when they were at sea, they practiced what they’d do if the ship went down, a torpedo in the side.
“Take off your jeans, tie them off, and swing them over your head real quick. They fill with air, and they’ll act as a flotation device.”
“But Dad, what about the sharks?”
“You don’t think about them.”
VII.
Before we hike the narrows in Zion, I check with the rangers to see if there is a chance for flash floods, knowing that once we enter the water there are few safe places we can seek should the water come spilling along the canyon walls.
At the mouth of the narrows, previous adventurers have left walking sticks. We enter the water, cold on our feet and ankles. The water is clear. Jake is amazed, comments how different this water is from the Missouri River, how if I were to lie down in it he could actually see me unlike the time he watched me swim in the Missouri River and was only able to see the orange of my life jacket on my shoulders and my face looking at him as he sat worried that I was risking too much by taking a swim in such dangerous muddy currents.
We begin walking, slipping on rocks, making our way to sandy patches where we can perch for a few moments to find another path to navigate. The sides of the canyon walls are high, straight and slick. We each take turns wondering what we’d do if a flash flood happened. What would we grab on to? Perhaps each other, and then I think about my friends Roger and Scott and how their loved ones clung to each other as they were drowning, and how the fireman dragging the muddy farm pond gasped to see how they had stayed together as they gulped more water, became heavier and sank to the bottom.
We keep moving. I eye the few branches that are growing from the sides of the canyon, imagine clinging to them, having my picture taken from a helicopter rescue team, and how the world would look at it with astonishment like they did with the photos from the flood of ’93, the elderly woman in the tree, clutching her cat, the fireman, wading waist deep with a canoe to whisk her to safety.
Despite these thoughts, we laugh, watch each other slip and splash in the water, are shoes and socks soaked, our shorts and shirts damp, until we fall completely. Jake just sits there laughing, the water rocking the hem of his basketball shorts, his arms folded, hand fisted around the walking stick. Around us families are tripping up and when they fall, they jump right back up. Not Jake. He just ponders, feels the water, the way it gently laps over him, the cold slick rocks beneath him, as if he’s waiting for me to write this moment down.
VIII.
Floating on my back in the middle of the pool, the sun shines on my face. Water sways over my face, into my ears. There are no sharks, no water moccasins, no muddy water, no fireman dragging me from the bottom of the pond, no sinking destroyer, no need for anyone to ask the lifeguard to go to Vietnam, and Jake hates deep water and isn’t going to jump in willingly. I’m just floating, wondering if it’s time to get one of those swim suits with the skirt attached.
