Digging deeper into the pile of organizational pain my parents left me…from God-only-knows-how-many ancient relatives…I found a series of plastic baggies holding postcards with dead people, bluebirds, Santa Claus, pixies, and random bridges…
before Hallmark movies…
and social media…
…before Linkedin…
and travelocity, motels.com, priceline…
when the world liked a picture postcard…
somewhere between New Straitsville, Murray City, and Shawnee, a fire is burning, burning the earth beneath, unquenchable. way back in 1884, a group of striking miners, sent a “take-this-job-and-shove-it” message to their bosses by sending several coal cars with oil-drenched timbers deep into the mine. at that time, the known vein of coal there was at least 14 feet thick, but nobody knew where it stopped, where it branched off, nor when nor how it would die out…
finding the evidence of the still-burning fire is like a patchwork mystery, especially since much of the surface now is under the authority of Wayne National Forest, and the government would rather you not off into the woods hunting for signs of it…
….but it is still burning. I know, I smelled the sulfur coming from what at first looked like a cave…
but when I stepped near the entrance and took a look inside, I knew I had discovered a mine. so now, over a hundred years later, I knelt down near white sand and saw a tree limb covered in an ashen-like material inside the mine opening.
less than a mile down the road, mounds of coal still lay exposed on the ground, and I caught a whiff of the pungent scent of burning coal…
a few locals- descendants of miners- told me over the years that you could tell where the fire was if you went looking for steaming patches of ground not covered by fresh snow in the winter time. but asked if I could find remnants of it any other time of year, they said that it was unlikely anyone would find it today.
do you think they may still be embarrassed that their ancestors set the earth on fire?
no words, just pictures…that is all we need late in the summer sun. no expressions, just a moment that lingers. the icy gel of white-tipped waves in a basin planned by engineers…i turn away from the dam, the unnatural spillway, and watch the waves. for mystery and happiness is so much better than numbers and drawings…
a tranquil slice of the natural…on a day hot enough to boil an egg on your automobile…
shades of green and blue…and white…summer’s palette…simmering…framed by sunlight. impossible to paint, to capture the material…and the spiritual…i am astounded by the beauty You create…
Cajoe Phillips is buried within boating distance of The Big House- but not off of the same river. First, you would take a little boat down Wolf Creek to the banks of the Muskingum River. You might want to switch boats here to a much larger one, albeit one not too big- it has to fit through the locks.
After sailing down the Muskingum to the confluence of the Ohio and Muskingum, the much larger river flows south and west. Any boat traveling down this way would have to be vigilant, the Ohio is a wide and full river.
In the old days it might take most of a day or two to travel down what was then a much more shallow river. Today, a small boat would suffer the pollution of numerous polymer plants spewing Mid Ohio Valley Crud into the air and over the water.
Until your boat slipped past the Little Kanawha River- not so little- pouring out into the ever growing river. Once the boat passed Parkersburg, the river churns all that sediment and the craft toward the isle of Cajoe Phillip’s most impressive residence…on Blennerhassett Island.
Ironically, Mr. Phillips was not a willing resident of the island. Along with several others from the east coast, Africa, and Ireland, he was considered legal property of Harmon and Margaret Blennerhassett, English adventurers who left Ireland (then oppressed by the British Empire) to settle on the edge of Virginia on the prettiest island in the Ohio River.
Cajoe, owner of a Bible, a hymn book given to him by Margaret Blennerhassett, and not much more, lived on the island with other slaves and servants. Today, the servant cabins are nowhere to be seen, although archaeological digs have been done on the island in search of such structures. These cabins would have been behind The Big House, back toward the gardens and the plantation itself.
This four mile long island was once a single plantation; now it is a carefully controlled state park in the West Virginia state park system. I say “controlled” because the island is not completely open to the general public- just the front part. The rear, an expanse of pasture for “wild” horses and deer, is inaccessible to the voting public…which makes one feel a bit like Cajoe Phillips…as the guided tour stops, and turns around, at a sign that proudly proclaims the site of “The Blennerhassett Plantation.”
you will find dirt like this on the moon. lovely gray stuff. but here- beside roads bleached by lime and sun. gray-white lanes snaking through countryside…abandoned to reversion…their tails gently disappearing over rises subtle and severe, waiting for the next lost traveler.
for a lad like me.
not that i was really lost, only moderately so. mystery is a good thing when taking a turn right past a road confluence without any signs and certainly no recent maintenance. besides, the birds sang sweetly in the breeze as i slowed to a halt beside that first watering hole.
a tempting place…to do nothing. but listen.
and that is what i did.
forget about being lost. forget about planning the rest of the day. forget about the things in life that will rust or burn…what about what will remain within your heart? what about those moments when you find yourself surrounded by love?
is that not what the sound of a red-winged blackbird calling out to his mate sounds like? is it not the sound of the breeze rustling tall wild grasslands? is it not the sound and scent of eastern hemlock branches hanging low near your vehicle, filling you with a longing to sleep beneath the soft grey-green wood lingering beside the pond?
it is like a fragrant symphony, not a metal gray mud like the surface of the moon. it was created for you to enjoy. and it tells you a little about the one who created you, the Father that gives every good gift.
if you never take the time to walk in the woods…
...to step out of what man has built…
and experience what God created for you to enjoy…
will you understand His heart…His peace…His gentle love?
you were fearfully and wonderfully made…
a precious individual created to be a reflection of our Father.
will you die to self so that you can rise up to be the beautiful one He created?
a massive quilt, a series of high trusses, and an Ohio flag hung from the rafters of the metal pole building, trying to pass as a convenience store.
“You have salad?”
“We got garden salad.”
it was buried under the dozen American pizza choices, deep fried cheese sticks. and other cholesterol-enriched menu items. i looked for a dressing list…
She waited, hand on hip, frowning.
“Dressing- where’s your dressing?”
“I got ranch, eye-talian, and ranch.”
Junior and his tall buddy in denim overalls slipped by and sat at a ’70’s style Pizza Hut table.
“Did you say ‘ranch’?”
“What other kinda dressing is there?”
I ordered…and wandered around the store. Passing a row of deep fried snacks in plastic bags…a row of scientifically created puffed candies…and a row of generic paper products and white bread…
Junior’s father- or someone genetically related- passed me. I escaped his presence- and essence- by returning to the aisle near the Soviet-era deli counter…
“Junior?”
A pizza appeared from some mystery food prep area.
I stared at the feed pallet beside me, trying not to feel foreign. That was when I spotted the goat chow. The side of the bag was torn open, as if someone wanted a free sample…
“Here’s your salad.”
She handed me a stapled brown paper bag containing a hidden plastic container.
I took it to the cashier’s counter, paid for it, and found my car.
Several miles down the road, free from staring eyes, I found a safe gravel road turn off, pulled in, then opened my bag. The plastic container revealed a huge rabbit-food-like pile of torn iceberg lettuce, so large it sprung out onto the floor.
With my fork I dug down into the pile, until I discovered a thin layer of tomato pieces, green pepper pieces, strips of onion, and enough banana peppers to fill a small bottle. Nothing else.
I scouped up the lettuce on the floor hunting for my dressing. It is no wonder I didn’t find it. Because when I did, I nearly spilled the rest of my salad.
It lay on the floor, having rolled out of the paper bag. It looked like a free drink. But inside the large cup, it was all ranch dressing. Enough to paint a fence…
After spilling enough salad and dressing to feed a small child, I ate the rest of the contents within the container…
Then I drove through the country over a one lane gravel road to a nature preserve.
Into a thinned hemlock and hardwood forest, I hiked, until the stream below me dropped several feet….and I saw this-
and walking closer…
…finding a waterfall…far from Junior, goat feed, and the Ranch Dressing Lady…
…where I listened to the symphonic music of God’s natural wonders…in peace…
(from a Middle Island meadow, looking back to a bridge over the Ohio River)
A photo journey to Middle Island in the Ohio River, part of a national wildlife refuge…
(home to numerous wildlife….)
(Headland Trail, Middle Island)
(spring trail-side flowers)
(reaching the northern end of the island- looking out into the Ohio River)
(looking back on the trail…can you spot the robin high on a limb, or the children’s playground slide across the channel?)
(at the entrance to the wildlife refuge road)
…now, it is time to cross the bridge and find some supper…
The Lost Kerryman 