Ashley’s Point, for that was the name I bestowed upon the small peninsula at the mere age of seven, is situated adjacent to Cross Creek. The creek, the lifeblood of rural Palmyra, not only snakes through the center of the small village, but also the entirety of our eighty-five acres. Near the end of the creek, about forty or fifty feet before Ashley’s Point, the waters separate into a y-shape, oftentimes sending the more turbulent waters careering in the point’s direction.
On most days, however, the scene at Ashley’s Point is serene. Although the point itself offers few amenities, only a rusty pail for a stool and a heap of tangled branches for shade, it is an incomparable spot for reflection and meditation. Tall, regal ash trees stand guard on the edge of the opposite bank. Bushy-tailed squirrels with ballooning cheeks scurry from tree to tree, depositing their winter supply within the wood hold. Minnows dart back and forth in the shallow stream, making gentle ripples over the clear blue water. A painted turtle basks lazily on a dry rock, soaking in the noonday heat.
But perhaps more profound than its scenery is the stillness of Ashley’s Point. Only the soft whistling of the wind or the gentle rustling of leaves ever breaks its perpetual calm. Far from the nearest road or home, Ashley’s Point is a place haunted by the memories of days past, of days when cares were fleeting, of days when the future was nothing more than a distant dream. Ashley’s Point is the place of my childhood, where I once frolicked in the stream, chasing after minnows with my bare hands, where I once gazed with child-like awe at a rusty pail and imagined it a bronze throne.
Today as I sit on the banks of the creek, the spell of Ashley’s Point no longer entrances me as it did many years ago. But in the absence of childlike enchantment, I now feel a solemn reverence, a solemn reverence for Ashley’s Point, my childhood tramping ground, where my imagination ran free and where my soul embraced its identity.