Red, White, and Something Near Blue

All around the town, all over the country, 

people will be gathering to celebrate the Fourth of July, 

the 237th anniversary of the signing of 

the Declaration of Independence.

There will be ice cream socials, picnics, carnivals,

concerts by brass bands and orchestras,

culminating in the fireworks displays

guaranteed to produce "Ooohs" and "Aaahs"

from children of all ages.  

I've become jaded by fireworks, however, because, 

for me, the best and the worse display ever

took place on the Ohio River in August, 2003.

Moonrise

I made this picture several years ago. 

Some friends were getting ready to go to a Christmas party 

(it was the middle of November) and asked me to

take their picture before they left.

 After they had gone, I returned to the boat 

where I saw the moon rising in the east, pink and

lavender clouds in the sky and reflected in the river's

surface. Of course, I had to make a painting of the scene.

The usual intention is to cover the entire canvas 

with color, but when I got this far, I figured I'd told

my story: There they were - the moon, the clouds, 

the reflections, the white boats against the

dark green shadows.

I loved that place, that time.

Spring Morning on the River

The sharp, musty smell of the river in spring

makes me tipsy with plans for trips 

and long, slow rides along the river's banks 

where the trees hang low, their leaves

teasing me with sensuous strokes of my face

as the boat drifts in their shade.

I lean on the boat's rail and take in 

the morning fog, so dense 

I can't see the bank where we are tied. 

The fog hangs idly at the water's surface, suspended,

until the sun rises from behind the hills.

It swirls around me as I sweep the deck,

wrapping me in a veil of clouds

where I stand, unseen, to watch

the shadowed forms of geese as they fly upriver.

The beating of their wings buffets the air

as they pass, murmuring among themselves,

telling goose stories, instructing - who knows?

They tilt their wings, drop their feet and

land, Boosh! in the water,

their webbed black feet acting as brakes,

to create little crystal wakes.

They dip their heads in the water, 

bobbing warily as they paddle around then, 

at some unseen signal, are off again

disappearing into the fog as if erased

by an unseen hand.

I take my camera and sit at the end

of the dock, near Belle's sternwheel,

to watch the sun rise over the hills,

casting its bright rays into the purple 

shadows along the banks.

The fog rises from the river, 

a bright pink and gold mist, 

as across the way Nancy Ann

gleams white against the tree line.

The sun breaks through the trees nearby,

making a pool of golden light. 

Just beyond a heron dives for food, then 

making an awkward ascent, 

wings and legs akimbo and streaming water, 

he leaves the river with his catch.

Sounds of vehicles on the road

a hundred yards away - F150s, 
their tires thrumming on the asphalt, 

begin to break through the quiet.

The aroma of fresh coffee wafts 

from the boat, and I go inside

to begin another dream.

Happy Birthday, Kid!

Inversion

 A Muskingum Thanksgiving, 2002. Painting by Sara Wright,
looking from the Dresden Belle across the river to Nancy Ann.

In winter, we would go to the boat for quiet weekends

uninterrupted by the noise of daily routine.

The crisp breeze turned the river's ripples into sharp crescents

as the cold air nicked my face with little pins.

I dipped my bucket into the river,

drawing up water almost crystal clear,

the summer's clay having sunk to the bottom

taking with it the season's secrets.

In summer I loved to fish off the boat, 

pulling out sleek gray catfish.

I liked to look at them, to feel their rough mouths

and check their gills as I avoided 

the sting of their sharp barbels,

the whiskers that gave the fish its name.

Their black eyes stared back at me, their captor,

and I always felt ashamed, afraid

I'd done them irreparable harm.

I marveled at their sleek, shiny skin

that held a thousand million scent organs

to pick up the river's stories from miles around.

The catfish heard the furtive footfalls on the deck, 

the loud, unhappy voices weaving lies that curled

into the night air as the bonfire's sparks 

reached toward the galaxy of stars.

They swam in the fetid odor of nicotine

and alcohol sweat washed into the river from the boat,

swept to the murky depths where the secrets lay

before the cold came and, for another brief season,

the water seemed crystal clear, 

inverting lies with false clarity.

Bitter River

I went down to the river, a place I love, 

to feel the first spring breeze against my face.

It brings to mind my boat, my Belle, 

my heart for many years.

We'd go early each spring to open her for the season,

to take the antifreeze from her pipes, 

the veins that gave us water, 

to sweep the cobwebs from her windows, 

awakening her from slumber.

I checked the lines, still snugly tied

and turned to greet the boat, "Hello, Belle," 

as I always did, running my hands along her sides

I could tell how her winter had been.

The feel and sound of my fingers as they

stroked the rough wood told me where

I would need to scrape and paint.

One rough trip I found her hull scraped bare,

leaving a patch of polished steel 

where before had been matte black.

Badly hurt, she'd brought us safely home

and deserved our tender care.

I washed and painted her wound,

remembering the scream of metal 

as she slid unhappily along the lock wall, 

and hoped to avoid an infection of rust.

Knowing her in this way, she became a living thing

and I wondered at her days when we weren't with her.

I once found a winter's worth of bones and scales

where an eagle had used her deck as a fishing lodge,

a place to enjoy its tasty catch. 

It felt unfair to sweep the pearly shards into the river,

like erasing a page from Belle's diary,

expunging her life with other tenants 

who'd taken shelter there.

Too early to hear the carp drumming on our boat,

adding their voices to the bullfrogs' choir

along the Muskingum's banks,

we curled against each other in the night, 

a cocoon of warmth against the chilled March air, 

where we listened to bright sounds, 

like cocktail party chatter, 

as the river rippled past the hull.

It was a loving struggle to bring her to life,

and when she was ready she was stolen

by a patient criminal, her lines loosened

by nicotine-stained fingers and a lifetime of lies,

to cruise on bitter rivers.

I turned from the river and walked away, 

as the cold breeze raised sharp ripples,

sounding now like a shattered heart.

Autumn Blues

Autumn morning on the Muskingum River at Lowell, Ohio

There is sometimes a longing so deep that the morning sun, 

burning off the mist, serves only to reveal how 

much farther the heart has to travel. 

The clear sky, echoed in the mirrored surface of the river, 

and the jewel-toned tapestry of the trees

balance the pain of betrayal hidden in the mists just beyond.

The trees create a jewel-toned tapestry to serve as
backdrop for our Muskingum River cruise. 

Postcard Worthy: Confluence

Taken in 2007 from the deck of the Dresden Belle, this photograph shows participants
in the annual sternwheel boat races gathering at the confluence of the Ohio and Muskingum Rivers
after the completion of their heats. The races are held each year as the culmination of the Ohio River Sternwheel Regatta at Marietta, Ohio

I took this picture in 2007 while standing on the deck of my boat, the Dresden Belle. We'd just finished taking part in our heat of the annual races, which are the climax of the annual Marietta Ohio River Sternwheel Regatta. It was our first year and we didn't win, but who knew that, like NASCAR, there were "side draft" issues in boat races! 


I loved standing on the deck of the boat, to feel the breeze in my hair. Every shift in steering Carl made I could feel beneath my feet; likewise, if she wasn't working right I could also feel that. When the races were over, the boats gathered on the Ohio River at the mouth of the Muskingum, creating this scene, reminiscent of a time when the packet boats were a common sight on America's rivers.

Always remember, however, that postcards are advertisements, pretty pictures meant to entice, perhaps to deceive. I loved my boat, I loved the way that scene unfolded before us. What I didn't know was that the people and things I loved had a long history of deceit. The above scene was the last of a happy ten years; the postcard and the reality were two different things.

Click here to view thumbnails for all participants in this month's City Daily Photo Theme Day.

The Best Fireworks Display Ever ...

Anticipating the Fourth of July, the first thing I think of is fireworks and a display we saw several years back at the 2003 Parkersburg (West Virginia) Homecoming Celebration. That August, we took our boat on its first excursion on the Ohio River. We'd worked on it since 1998, leaving the dock only for short cruises on our "pond" of the Muskingum River, located between the dams at Lowell and Beverly, Ohio. We wanted to test the boat's engine and steering to find whether all the work done on them had been correct before we attempted a longer trip. The Dresden Belle had worked fine on the comparative calm of the smaller river. It was time to let her swim in deeper water.

                                            

We left around mid-morning on a Friday, accompanying our friends, Wayne and Jean, and their boat, the Michael J. When we reached Marietta and made the right turn to enter the Ohio River to go to Parkersburg the difference between the two seemed so vast, I felt like we'd entered an ocean. The trip itself was pleasant and the four hours we spent on the river were uneventful. It was a calm August afternoon and nothing was hurried or frantic. The boat worked beautifully and Carl was so happy with his efforts, so happy to finally be on the river, that he sang with joy.

 

When we reached Parkersburg, we tied up alongside the Michael J. That was not without difficulty; usually boats will tie with their bows facing upriver, into the stream, while here we tied with our bow nosed up against the river wall facing the bank, as well as tied to our neighbor, the Michael J. Our boat is large and it took quite a bit of effort on the part of  several men, pulling against the current with long lines, to help bring her around to face the wall. Afterwards, we visited with our friends and joined them for dinner on another boat, where we planned a trip to nearby Blennerhassett Island the next morning.

The next day we walked down to the dock to board the ferry for the two-mile trip to the island which, for a time, was the idyllic home of Margaret and Harman Blennerhassett, who had immigrated to America from Ireland in the late 1700's. While Blennerhassett was an intelligent man, he didn't possess good sense. His family gave him his inheritance and "encouraged" him to leave for a couple reasons: 1) Margaret was his much younger niece and 2) Blennerhassett seemed to be a patsy for any nefarious scheme proposed to him by political malcontents wanting money.

This latter failing caused them to lose their lovely home when, in 1806, Aaron Burr convinced Blennerhassett to finance his plot to establish a separate nation with himself as ruler in the Spanish-held southwest territory. The plan was discovered and the two men were arrested. While the treason was never proved and they were eventually released, the damage was done; the Virginia Militia raided the island to search for munitions and evidence. Finding none, they vandalized and burned the home (the present structure is a re-creation based, in part, on the remaining foundations). Their money gone and home destroyed, the Blennerhassetts left the area and spent the remainder of their lives in poverty.

After looking over the beautiful property and learning its unfortunate story, we boarded the ferry, returning to Parkersburg in time for dinner and the fireworks. People came down to the riverfront in a steady stream carrying chairs and blankets to sit on while they visited, ate corn dogs, cotton candy, and elephant ears (a concoction of deep-fried batter covered with powdered sugar). They wandered by to gaze at our boats, then watched as a parade of decoratively-lighted pleasure boats slowly cruised the area. A barge tied next to us had been decorated for a party hosted by its owner, the sponsor of the fireworks. Everyone was relaxed and happy.

As darkness fell, the Coast Guard temporarily shut down the channel to river traffic, allowing rafts of family boats to quickly fill in the area, their running lights the only illumination. The towboat pushing the fireworks-laden barge was in place mid-river, awaiting the start time. Carl and I had joined Wayne and Jean on their boat.  The first salvos were fired just after the "Star-Spangled Banner" was played. In company to the music the first shells were launched from the front of the barge, going up as planned, straight and true.

All but one. Within fifteen seconds of the start, that shell had been launched, hit one of the supports of the suspension bridge over the river, then ricocheted down onto the barge, progressively setting off the mortars and displays along its length. Chrysanthemums, pinwheels, whistling things and flares meant to enthrall, in their turn, hundreds of feet above us instead went off at what essentially was ground level. 

The little world in front of me turned a weird shade of green rather than the colors one would expect. At one end of the barge I thought I saw one man, maybe two, leap into the water. I stood just behind Carl, my eyes wide with awe at beauty gone awry. That is, I did until one of the missles, streaming eerily white out of the green, seemed to come straight at me. I looked over at my boat,wood, unmanned and unprotected, and left to get our fire extinguisher -- "just in case, 'cause you never know."

As I scrambled awkwardly down the Michael J's spiral stairs, Jean asked me what was going on. "Barge exploded ... rocket came at the boat. I'm scared it might catch fire," is all I remember. Just as I got to our boat and grabbed the extinguisher to take upstairs, the explosions sputtered to a halt. For a short while, the specially selected music still played until it, too, was cut off mid-phrase. It was suddenly black and silent.

The Coast Guard, police and sheriff boats responded quickly but carefully, slowly trolling the water around the barge for unexploded charges, at one point shining their search lights onto each of the sternwheelers looking for live mortars. Another set of lights was turned on the barge, revealing big chunks taken out of the top corner of its one-inch thick steel hull. It looked like a giant mouse had been snacking on it. Eventually the river was cleared, the towboat took the barge somewhere, and the Coast Guard allowed the spectators who lived upriver to take their boats home.

The party was definitely over on the barge next to us. All the guests had gone, the decorations were suddenly inappropriate and workers were solemnly stacking the folding chairs and tables. We parted company, headed for bed in order to get up for an early departure for home. The river was opened to barge traffic and returned to its gentle rhythm, rocking the boats as we slept.

Before we left the next morning to return home, we learned that no one had been killed or injured in the explosion and the one guy who'd leaped off the barge was quickly picked up by one of the police boats. On our way upriver, not long after we passed under the bridge, Carl and I saw the stricken barge on the river bank. The concussion from the blast had ripped open its hull, and, when it began taking on water, the towboat pilot pushed it onto the bank to prevent it sinking in the river. I saw a small figure walking amid the debris, dressed in a bright white shirt and navy pants, who I assumed to be the fire investigator.

                                             

Later that afternoon, as we entered the mouth of the Muskingum River, I felt like the trees closed in on us, welcoming us home. We continued upstream, passing through the locks at Devola and Lowell. Going through those historic locks was a special occasion for me because it was the first time it was necessary for me to help keep the boat off the walls, at the same time securing her to keep from bobbing around in the lock chamber. It went well both leaving and returning. Later when a friend asked Carl how I'd done, he responded with a smile that began in his eyes and reflected his pride, "She did great!" I cherished those three words of praise, but valued the smile even more. Not only did I get to see the "best fireworks show ever!" but that smile lit up my world.