Ohio

This stretch of river is on the Ohio, about 35 miles north of where it meets the Mississippi at Cairo. The Rose Hotel was built in 1812 to house miners and river boatmen and others traveling along the river bottom. It sits on a bluff overlooking the river, with this summer-house on the edge of the bluff. There used to be a red flashing light just to the right of the summer house, put there for navigational purposes.

When I wrote the song "Ohio," it was this stretch of the river I was thinking of. The hotel is five doors down the river from the cabin my grandfather built, on part of this same bluff. He intended it for a getaway spot, but as he descended into paranoia, it seemed like the last safe place to him. He built platforms on the bluff to sleep on so that he could not be gassed by those who persecuted him.

When we visited last, my children, my mother and I, the weather had turned cool. This was rare for July, which hits Southern Illinois hot and humid. The river had been absorbing sunlight for two months and was warm as bathwater. I woke early and there was mist rising everywhere. I took about 200 pictures. This one was almost an afterthought.

There are places for each of us that contain symmetry, magic and peace. When I was a boy, I went a spot under some overhanging trees, by the less magestic Arkansas, where I found some quiet from time to time. The Arkansas, pronounced in Wichita with the emphasis on the second syllable, was shallow and sandy bottomed.

When we returned to this stretch of the Ohio in Southern Illinois, I was amazed at how at home we felt. Our best time was spend sitting on the second floor porch of the hotel watching the water.

The second night we stayed, Mom went to bed early, exhausted. The kids and I lay on the grass, on the hotel lawn, and watched falling stars. My father's footprints were all over that bluff and along the river bottom, now mostly consumed by the big river bend.

My mother sometimes asks "Will we ever go back there?" I don't know.