2023, essay, Ohio River Valley Literature, prose, river life, the no-scape, Working Class Literature

Stand By

When I can’t sleep one of the dogs usually stays with me. Tonight it’s Nala, the husky mix. They’ve been keeping watch over me during the days while I’m recovering from hip surgery and Amanda’s at work. They’re good company, and I fully expect some temper tantrum from them… Nala in particular… when I go back to work.

I probably drank too much coffee today. I drink a lot of coffee in general, but I’ve been pretty good at dialing it back while convalescing. The idea has been to stay on the same wake / sleep schedule as Amanda. Been doing pretty good too, until today.

It could be the coffee or it could be that I feel like I’ve been away from the river too long, my recovery is going really well, and I’ve wound myself up about getting back to my life. Grateful as I am that the surgery has been successful and the recovery is going as well as it can, and as blessed as I feel that Amanda has been so amazing through this whole ordeal, most days my brain is just rattling around in my head.

My curse is a particular itch. In the past it sent me out on the road. Working on the river, on the Belle of Louisville, somehow scratches that itch. And as I round out the 4th post-surgical week, and I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, I’m anxious to get back to my life. It reminds me of working the firebox on the Belle, keeping the boiler pressure at 180, waiting for the telegraph to tell me it’s time to launch.

And it’s not just about getting back to the boat. I’m anxious to spend time with my wife that isn’t a perpetual post-op. I’d like to visit my daughter and her family, get back to the perpetual hide-and-seek game with my granddaughter. I’d like to visit my mother ln Cincinnati and my brother in Cleveland. I want to start walking everywhere again and do so without the hip pain my surgery fixed.

But for now it’s me, Nala, and some cheesy TV. I’m sitting in my chair, feet up on a pillow on top of a small footstool. I’m down to one or two painkillers a day, and I’m finished with the post-op blood thinners. Life is good. The boiler’s up, the wheel is spinning, and I’m just waiting for the call to come down the telegraph to launch.

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2023, Ohio River Valley Literature, poetry, river life, Working Class Literature

in search of a true patron saint for western river boiler men

that poet was right about water everywhere.
the only security is a solid hose made
from the thickest rubber not on tires of a 1957 Ford Fairlane:
this we hold sacred, as is the practice.

any intercessions are called forth with a novena of mud and grease,
and must be offered to one with a thick skin,
a proper sense of humor, and a hotline
straight to whoever is minding the upstairs
during these cruel, raptureless days.

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