I grew up in a river town and I have lived, so far, through three 500-year floods. Rivers hold a secret. They respect no manmade boundaries. Rivers will always get where they are going.
My hometown was not fancy, but it was real. That is how river towns are. It was union blue collar and money didn’t come easy. An honest day’s work was expected.
Yesterday, when east bound Highway 50 crossed the Ohio River into West Virginia, we decided Parkersburg would be a good layover site. The rain fell gently all morning, just enough to wash the town clean.
We enjoyed a beautiful October afternoon on the sand riverbank. Up off the water’s we found a favorite locals dive with just enough edge to have character: 12 TV’s showing college football, happy hour specials and live music starting at 8 pm. Good day and I would go back.
On a low, levee-protected tongue of the Little Kanawha River, at the confluence of the Ohio, slumbers modern-day Parkersburg. We found a scenic but lightly attended spot to watch the current of water flow inexorably south at a steady three miles an hour. Years ago this was a roaring river town, full of side-wheelers and railroads and money; but by 1970 most of the coal and railroad money—and the people—moved on. Left were the survivors with little recourse.
Seven out of 10 Americans are one paycheck away from being homeless. He walked past where we sat, and down to the water’s edge. He began to take off his clothes. Were we looking at a suicide? He had discarded his jacket, shirt, shoes, and socks, and was working on his belt. I approached as nonchalantly as I possibly could and asked, “are you OK?”
We made small talk. His name was Paul. As we chatted he put his jacket back on, but not his shirt, shoes or socks. He gave no explanation as to his impromptu strip.
A medical professional definition of mental illness is when the majority of your time is spent in the past or future, but rarely living in the realism of today. Paul checked the boxes.
He had just turned 50 years of age, he said. He was originally from Richmond Virginia and had spent 4 1/2 years in that state’s prison system. He was paroled in 2018.
I didn’t ask, but he shared his crime was first-degree assault. It was bad rap, he swore. Someday he would get even. Someday he was going back to Richmond. He had been done wrong.
He had wandered up to Parkersburg looking for an aunt, but so far, had not found her. He said he had nowhere else to go. “I’m just here. it’s really hard to convince people, once you’ve been in prison, that you really have changed.”
“I am pretty hard up right now but I just need to find my aunt. I had 20 years in the HVAC industry before I went to prison. I have time to figure it out. I just need a little help.”
I wished him well. We did not shake hands.
There's a unbending reality that slaps you square when you spend time watching the river flow - nothing lasts forever. You have to be ready to hold on and you have to be ready to let go - and pray for the wisdom to know when.
