This old river town, Rocheport, has served as home for many in the passing centuries. It has quietly hosted the Osage Indians as they hunted its woods and fished its rivers, the passage of Lewis and Clark, homesteading of the Boones, the passage of settlers and pioneers toward the Santa Fe and Oregon trails, traveling preachers like Alexander Campbell and Barton Stone, riverboats, then trains, and then roads and highways and bridges. Today it is a sleepy town peppered with antique stores and B&Bs. And it is a new home to me.
Tonight, as I walked the KATY trail along the Missouri River in the cooling evening, the words of Robert Frost came to mind. No matter that they originally emerged in the depths of winter, the darkest day of the year. They work just fine for July, too. For a moment, in the continuity of time and that which reaches beyond time, they became my own: