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.

Starry Night

Illustration borrowed for the occasion
from the blog Sweetpea Path

When I heard the news that Neil Armstrong had died

it took me back to that day, July 20, 1969, when the Eagle

was scheduled to land on the Moon.

The Moon, a place about 238,900 miles away

from anyplace on Earth I might be sitting. Ever.

I'd read an article in a magazine with instructions 

on how to take photos of the landing on the 

TV screen. I bought a roll of Kodak Tri-X film,

put it in my trusty Honeywell H1a 35mm SLR

and sat in the living room in front of 

the black and white television.

It was a warm, quiet evening. 

No one was in the house but me 

as I watched the events unfold in marvelous, 

fuzzy, flickering black and white.

I'd pre-focused the camera and set the f-stop

so I wouldn't have to worry about it, then waited.

Like the rest of the people, I sat and watched the screen

as one foot, then another descended the ladder,

taking pictures as it played out.

"One small step for man,

one giant leap for mankind."

 I watched as transparent images of

astronauts walked, skipped, and seemed to dance

on the Moon's surface. I was so proud of them,

and so happy for the men sitting in Houston

at Mission Control that I cried.

I wanted to do that, I wanted to be there

on the end of a rocket, like a giant

canned ham being launched towards the skies,

but what could NASA do with someone

whose only skills are drawing and maybe

splattering white paint on a dark blue canvas?

Forty years later, I would often sit at night

on the banks of the Muskingum River, listening

to friends chat around the bonfire while I

stared up at the night sky, strewn with the stars

of the Milky Way Galaxy. The beauty of 

those evenings was so palpable, I can still hear

Carl's voice telling a story as the fire's embers

floated up to meet the stars. Sometimes I saw 

a satellite speed across the sky,

another time the space station.

Several years ago, Carl and I visited Mission Control

at the Houston Space Center. We both were

surprised how small it was, at the tiny computer 

screens and the black telephones. I don't think it had

occurred to either one of us until that moment

just how momentous the achievement was because,

compared to electronics we have now,

NASA was able to send men to the Moon

and bring them home with today's electronic equivalent 

of tin cans, string, and aluminum foil hats.

As I contemplated myself on this small speck of sand

where we spun and swooshed our way through

space, I sometimes thought of Neil Armstrong,

when he looked back towards home, towards

Earth, and saw a beautiful blue planet.

When he came back, Armstrong did the coolest thing. 

In a world where he could have eaten out the rest of his life

as "The First Man to Walk on the Moon," he instead

came home, went back to school and became a teacher.

He didn't keep what he knew, like some special

double-double-secret information.

No, he taught other people to become engineers

so they might be able to explore the universe,

to look back and see the Earth as he had done

so many years ago. 

My pictures? They came out just fine, but

were somehow lost, I don't know how.

It almost doesn't matter, because I have those images

etched in my memory forever, along with the bonfires

and the Milky Way.

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!

Flannel Shirt

I'd never seen cotton bolls before a trip we took to Houston.
On our way home we stopped at the edge of this field,
where Carl cut some stalks for me. I still have them, in a vase.

Going through a closet, 

I found one of Carl's old flannel shirts

hanging among my jackets. 

Its subdued plaid - tan, 

dark red and olive green, 

reflected the outdoor style of the man.

The soft folds hold memories,

smells from his work, of smoke from bonfires, 

and sawdust, or oil from an engine.

I held it against my face, then

wrapped myself in the nubby fabric 

and lay on the bed for a while, 

his scattered pheronomes 

enveloping me one more time 

in his strong embrace

where I'd often sought shelter,

safe from the toxic cunts 

who ruled my office 

and made my work such hell.

I got up, folded the shirt, and

returned it to the dark drawer, 

where it lay, a carapace of the man

who protected me, who gave me courage. 

A reminder of the love not gone,

just in another place.

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.

Drama

When I'm taking pictures I always see in terms of paintings 

I might want to make. Big ass paintings. Oh, not so long 

that I have to run with a brush from one end to the other, but enough that whoever looks at them can feel involved in the gesture the trunk 

makes against the background, and the way the leaves shimmer.

When I take a picture, I don't want anyone to see "tree," 

"building" or "rocks," but just beautiful color and gesture.

At this point, the trees do a better job of that

than I will ever be able to accomplish.

I gotta long way to go.

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. 

Betrayal

Cricket prepares to enter the lock at Devola
on her way to the Ohio River Sternwheel Festival, 2001.
Picture taken from the deck of the Michael J.
   

My 9/11 memories actually began the week before. On Labor Day weekend Carl and I had joined some friends on their boat, the Michael J, to make the trip from our home port in Lowell, down the Muskingum River to Marietta, Ohio. Our boat, Dresden Belle, was still undergoing repairs so we couldn't take trips much farther than the immediate area of our dock and were happy to help out in return for a nice cruise. A couple other boats, the Nancy Ann and Cricket, also joined us, the owners all taking their boats to Marietta for the annual Ohio River Sternwheel Regatta. Once there, we would tie up at the levee for the week along with about thirty other boats to enjoy the week's festivities.    
    The pictures here were taken while we were in the canal lock at Devola, one of  the locks and dams that make up the Muskingum River Improvement Project. Opened in 1841, the low-rise dams and locks were built to maintain a consistent depth to the river, allowing steamboats to navigate the Muskingum from Marietta to Dresden, just above Zanesville, where it joined the Ohio and Erie Canal. In 2001, the Muskingum Improvement system was designated a National Historic Civil Engineering Landmark and is maintained as one of the Ohio State Parks.
    As the pictures show, it was an idyllic time. With the last of the summer sun shining on the river, friends and family members enjoyed the ride. The gentle rhythm of the boats' paddle wheel splashing the water created a soothing sound. Carl and I helped get the Michael J. into and out of the locks, holding her against the lock wall to keep her from bobbing around in the lock while the water level dropped. Then the gates were opened and we went on our way.
   

Next stop, Marietta!

    When the boats reached Marietta later that afternoon, they were tied up on the levee in the spot where they would spend the week. Some people stayed on their boats all week, while others left because they had work obligations. We returned to our home and jobs in Indianapolis because Carl, who was chief pilot for a local company, was scheduled to fly his employers to New York City for meetings that would last over the following weekend. He expected to return early Tuesday morning from an airport in White Plains. I went to work that morning looking forward to Carl's return and seeing him that evening.
    Just about everyone's impression of that morning is how beautiful it was -- sunny, cloudless blue skies. Mine was no different. As I approached the front entrance to my office, a co-worker asked me if I'd heard that a plane had crashed into the side of the World Trade Center. I hadn't, but the beauty of the day suddenly became incongruous to the events unfolding in New York City and elsewhere. As my co-workers arrived, we all gravitated to the break room to watch as the horror played out on our TV screen. 
      It was a few minutes before nine, our start time. Nobody yet understood exactly what was happening. The first plane had already hit the WTC, the second one crashed into the North Tower a few minutes after nine. Somewhere in the confusion of people coming into the break room to watch the news coverage on TV, I looked up at the screen to see the pieces of a white jet strewn across the Pennsylvania countryside. I knew Carl had to fly over Pennsylvania to get home, that he'd been scheduled to leave sometime that morning. I didn't think it likely it was his Bombardier Challenger but my knees started shaking anyway.
      Shortly, I got an outside line to call Carl's dispatcher to ask if he knew when Carl was expected back. I guess he knew why I was calling, because Glen told me the jet had just landed, everyone was OK and he'd get Carl. He did and I was so glad to hear his voice. Apparently Carl's plane left just around the time the planes were being hijacked, and was probably in the area when Flight 93 ran into trouble over Pennsylvania. Not long after Carl had taken off, the FAA had ordered the air space over New York be vacated, then, while in the air, all civilian flights were grounded. In essence, he and his crew had flown through and on the edges of the tragedies, making it home just in time.

Bombardier Challenger, AKA "Miss Piggy" with her Captain,
Lake Tahoe, 2000

     Not long afterward, we were all sent home for the day. I got a ride home from a co-worker. At a time when the roads are usually full of traffic, there was none. Other than for one delivery truck, Diane and I had the entire, wide expanse of the expressway to ourselves as we drove from one side of the city to the other. Carl came in a few hours after I did and, together, we watched the news coverage as it unfolded, then became cruelly repetitive:  the TV news network used a video clip, reduced to red and black, of the planes driving into the towers, over and over again. It became unbearable and we retreated to the quiet of the boat as soon as we could.
    Civilian aircraft had been grounded. Nearly all my life, I'd watched the skies, looking upward as the jets' contrails wove a fabric across our country and around the world, connecting people and places I could only imagine; for the first time I could remember, the blue sky was devoid of those white threads. As I sat on the boat's deck with Carl, fishing while he worked on a project, I noticed a lone contrail, rising in the west at a very steep angle until it disappeared into the atmosphere. I asked about it and Carl told me it was probably a large military plane taking off from Wright-Patterson AFB at Dayton.
    Carl was particularly solemn over the weekend, thinking of the people who had lost their lives, men with whom he shared a proud and skilled profession. I watched him as he worked on the boat, the man I quietly adored beyond reason, whose skills and intelligence I respected and admired. The shaking knees I'd experienced earlier in the week were nothing compared to the wrenching grief being experienced now by so many others, who'd lost someone they loved.
    My man came home that day; so many others did not and never would.
    Since then, it seems that the deaths of so many people have been perverted into a religious war -- their extremists versus ours. Many of our people seem to be caught up in politics tainted by religious ideology masked as patriotism. And this frightens me just about as much as another bomb. What is that saying -- "you become the very thing you dread the most"? I am afraid we are becoming them. 
    


     

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.