Locks and Dams

The river of steel, aka morning traffic, has slowed to a standstill.  I can see a long way, from red light to red light, and clearly each little lock and dam is doing its job of back filling the slot, releasing, back filling, releasing.   It is going to be a long commute.

Back in the day, we used to go for Sunday drives to Lock and Dam 18, near Oquawka on the Mississippi.  We'd watch the barges drift into the lock.   The first barge would bump against the far gate, and the near gate would close behind the last barge, river water swirling around the entry and spewing through the cracks in little waterfalls.  The water would rise or fall, depending on the direction of travel, barges doing their vertical float until they were released at the new level.   Other barges lined up on the river, awaiting their turn.  We had picnics on the nearby beach and looked for geodes.  We sang Barges, and White Coral Bells.

After I graduated from college and moved out west, I returned for biennial Christmas visits, and a trip to the River was de rigueur.  Sometimes we went to watch the bald eagles soar above the river at the Keokuk dam.  Sometimes we went to Nauvoo for bleu cheese and a visit to the Mormon blacksmith shop.  Lock and Dam 18 was the usual goal, however.  We could stop by L's health center and take her out for lunch, and we could check out the covered bridge at Gladstone (aka, Happy Rock.)

The sky was usually a white-grey.  The segments of empty woods lining the river were black bare spikes, sometimes standing in pitted snow, sometimes standing in drifts of grey-brown leaves and writhing roots.  The river was a cold iron grey, with chunks of river ice pushed up onto the banks.  On good days, the chilly winter sun and pale blue sky added color and shadows to an otherwise bleak landscape.  I was always reminded of the Wind in the Willows, where Mole makes his solo expedition to the Wild Wood.  I too liked the earth, shorn of its leafy finery, the bones fine and strong and simple.

Now, sadly, you can't go to the locks on the river.  Since 9/11, they have been declared off-limits, as potential sites for terrorist activity.

Years later, I discovered the Ballard Locks, north of Seattle.  They were much more interesting.  They had a fish ladder, a park, and a wide assortment of vessels.  As the conduit between Lake Union and Puget sound, they hosted ocean-bound vessels, fishing boats, and pleasure craft.  To get to the fish ladder, you walked along the top of the gate as the lock filled.  Once on the other side, you had the dam to your left and the lower waters to your right.  There the seals bobbed, looking for salmon.   Unlike the seals at the beach, they were all business, totally uninterested in the people on the walkway.  No floating with the current, sleek heads turned toward you, bright eyes curiously watching, puppy-like.  The fish ladder was usually empty when I visited, the water bubbling and swirling bits of seaweed and dirt.  Once in awhile I lucked out and saw a fish or two, hunkered down out of range of the crashing water, resting, waiting for the next attempt up the ladder.  I never saw one leap.

Now I am inching along Powell Blvd, and there is nothing interesting about the progress.  No bald eagles soaring above, no floating seals, leaping salmon, graceful sailboats, bulky barges.  Just a bunch of impatient or resigned commuters, solitary in their steel cages, talking on cell phones, listening to radios, or staring ahead, thinking blank thoughts.  I am listening to the radio, allclassical.org, but my mind swirls with thoughts of unemployment, financial misdeeds, marital strife.  I am tearful and worried, and I cannot find the joy in the moment.

I think through my To Do list, and I realize I never returned E's call.  I know family and friends are worried about me.  I have reached out for help finding room-mates, jobs, clarity.  The responses have been loving and kind and deserving of a return, but I'm in such a funk so much of the time, I don't take the time to send reassurance.  Really, I know I'm fine, and I'll be fine, and in the end things may even be better.  Really.

I pull out the phone during one of the many stationary moments, and catch E at a Florida farmer's market with Mom and D.  We chat a bit, I get a bit teary-eyed, and I seek about for a neutral ending topic.

"So, I'm driving towards Tualatin to take a test to determine if I am qualified to be a clerk in a public library..."  Gales of laughter from E.    Yes, it is funny.