As I pulled up to my destination, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect after a decade absence from the Falls. Were there going to be any changes that I would recognize? Perhaps there were improvements to the area to help prevent the public’s urge to litter the historic grounds with unnecessary rubbish? Why did I care? I do not know why these were the questions my brain was sporadically producing, but I knew the answers were coming soon.
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| "When they shook hands, the Lewis and Clark Expedition began." |
I now had the state park’s Interpretive Center in my sights. As I leisurely made my approach, a large bronze statue of two men with pioneer-type hats came into view through my driver’s side window. It was a depiction of Lewis and Clark shaking hands before they ventured off to explore the Louisiana Purchase. Stephen E. Ambrose described the handshake that took place in 1803 as the defining moment when the Lewis and Clark Expedition began. It’s still amazes me that Clarksville is the town where that historic journey originated.
I continued cautiously around the Interpretive Center to the parking lot. The summers usually bring children to the Falls for all sorts of activities, so my anticipation for an unsupervised adolescent to zip into the road was on alert. As I came into the lot, I was amazed that it was vacant except for one beige minivan and a dark blue pickup. I was thinking either a family was running around in the fossil beds or a father was taking his eager son to fish. I have never fished at the Falls, although I have heard that this is a great catfish location.
I proceeded to steer my car thru the semi-vacant lot before finally backing my car into one of the many empty spots, failing to notice if I made it between the white lines. I eased the emergency brake on and shifted the car into park and then paused. The music was still blaring through the windows and sunroof. I turned the radio off and then paused again. Now all I hear is the idle engine quietly purring.
With the Midwest heat still flowing into the cabin, my hand reached for the keys dangling from the ignition. With a swift counter-clockwise rotation of my hand, the car shut off. Again, I paused.
Why I was just sitting there I have no idea. Scanning the area for some sense of direction, I noticed a bench upon the overlook near the Interpretive Center. I decided that it would at least provide a decent view of the Falls and fossil beds.
I removed the keys from the ignition and exited the car. I closed the car door then approached the walkway leading to the bench. Out of habit, I reached my hand into the right cargo pocket of my khaki shorts and pulled out a menthol cigarette and a red lighter I bought from a gas station the day before. When I arrived at the bench, I placed the cigarette between my lips and lit it and sucked the burning tobacco into my lungs. I took a seat on the metallic bench and propped my left foot on my right knee.
The solar waves were still radiating the metropolis, but the sun was now in the direction of the westerly Sherman Minton Bridge. A soft but swift breeze came thru just enough that I could smell the murkiness of the Ohio River. After 10 years away, I was surprised that I could still identify that smell. And then I realized, “This was it. This was home.” Clarksville, Indiana.
As I took another drag from the cigarette, I reminisced to the days of my youth growing up in Clarksville. I was 14 years old when my dad moved my brother and me here from neighboring Jeffersonville. Even though they were separated by rock-throwing distance, it felt like I had moved across the country. I had to abandon my childhood friends to go to a different high school, as a freshman. I hated it! It didn’t seem fair. But I also embraced it. I thrived in it. I was the “new” kid that was the nephew of the popular senior. Nobody knew who I was, so I reinvented myself. Distanced myself from the previous 13 years to become more outgoing and spontaneous.
A smirk gradually grew upon my face as a product of the realization of why I was sitting on a bench behind the Falls of the Ohio Interpretive Center. This site is one of the most memorable moments of my high school career. Well, maybe a contributory site of one of the most memorable moments.
The spring of 2001 marked my first trip to the spring break mecca, Panama City. I was young, excited, and foolish. Driving southbound on Interstate 65 during “Senior Skip Day” with four carloads of a dozen or so friends, we made it to Montgomery, Alabama before the two lead cars were pulled over by state troopers. I was bringing up the rear of the group, along with an SUV packed with varsity squad cheerleaders.
Knowing what I know now, it’s fortunate we didn’t stop to check on the first two cars because they ended up spending the night in custody for possession of a “funky” substance. Only the problem was that the reservation for the guys’ room was in the name of one of the detainees. No, I guess it really wasn’t a problem now that I think about. I mean, what 17 year-old dude isn’t going to accept the head cheerleader’s offer to stay with them for the night?
The smirk on my face evolved into a smile as I started to snicker under my breath. I could only shake my head, as I took another lung capacitating inhale of menthol smoke, remembering that it wasn’t the first night from the trip that corresponds to the Falls, but the sequence of events throughout the days that followed. In particular, the seventh of the nine days we were partying there.
Leading up to that historic Thursday night, my tolerance level was at the maximum. However, that night I was as sober as a priest on Sunday. I didn’t think anything of the five cans of Bud Light in my cargo shorts’ pockets as I walked along the Panama City strip that was bumper-to-bumper with intoxicated, bare-chested coeds. But somehow, out of nowhere, red and blue lights were surrounding me like I just knocked off the community bank next to the parking lot I was standing in. It wasn’t long until I was in the backseat of a cruiser, my hands bound behind my back. Official report: possession of alcohol by a minor, sentenced to community service.
The ultraviolet rays were still beating down on my SPF-unprotected skin as I glanced to the family of five walking up from the fossil beds. It’s the same path I walked several times during my 30 hours of service collecting discarded material in a thick, black plastic trash bag. Of course I’m sure that they were there enjoying the natural history of the Falls instead of gathering litter and debris, but at least they were there. I would have to burn my dad’s house down to get my brother out from the front of his Xbox. Even then, he probably couldn’t imagine himself living in the real world where he would actually have to socialize face-to-face. But here is this family that is taking in the Falls while surviving the dreaded Ohio Valley humidity. This is the type of interaction the Falls of the Ohio deserves.
I gave a hand wave and slight head nod to the family as they proceeded by me to their waiting beige minivan. The cheerful mother joyfully ushered her three muddy sons in through the sliding side door. I felt a sense of happiness. Happiness felt not for me, but for the name-less family. Being able to enjoy time with my wife and son is what I desire every day. I guess that is why I feel happy for them.
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