Jackass Journal & Compendium of Universal Knowledge
Episodes one through 9999, more or less
Unabridged, Unapologetic, Unsolicited,
In no particular order
PART THREE
MIAH
ON THE WATERFRONT
Most mornings on the river were remarkably tranquil. I occasionally took my morning coffee in the pilot house with the captain. The captain was a cordial gentleman, and an exceptionally good listener, because, with the exception of shouting occasional orders to the crew, the captain rarely spoke. If I was quiet, he was quiet too.
I’d sit in the luxurious pilot house, high above common civilians and mortal man, delight in the commanding vantage point provided by its towering height and admire the pastel hues of breaking dawn. The majestic river’s stoic undulations would reveal their many unpredictable moods all around me in all variety of eddies, backwaters, and deceptively quiet undercurrents.
At intervals along the way, a lone bullfrog would voice his romantic intentions, or a snowy-white egret would glide effortlessly past on a blustery current of balmy, moist air. Every now and again a debris pile would bob past, commandeered by a drowsing, moss-covered turtle. Waterfowl searched peacefully for breakfast along the shaded and silt-lined shores, and way up ahead in the hazy, shimmering distance, the misty glimmers of daybreak would spread their warm, refreshing rays on a vast and varied rainbow of vibrant greens, announcing the glad arrival of a bright new day.
Other occasions were anything but quiet! 1832 marked the invention of the steam trumpet. Through the years, this remarkably melodious contraption was gradually improved and eventually known by other names, such as the steam calliope.
With the advent of steam power, calliopes became commonplace if not expected onboard riverboats and at circuses, where steam also provided power to steam-driven carousels. A calliope’s brass and copper whistles are tuned to a chromatic scale (anyway, that’s the goal). Since the pitch of the note is greatly affected by the temperature of the steam, which varies tremendously, tuning the thing is almost impossible! With time, the occasionally sour and frequently off-pitch caterwauling of the calliope became part of their wide appeal and universal charm. Our boat had a steam driven calliope!
Stops along riverside communities were frequent and anticipated with fervent delight. These occasions were always an event in the small, isolated river communities. Approaching the waterfront, the captain would blow the whistle, our calliope player would assume his position at the polished brass keyboard, and the river’s typical tranquility would be assaulted by a cacophony of melodious screeching and tinny toots! Our musician was a veritable cornucopia of popular music of the day. If we could hum it, he could peck it out.
Before we reached sight of the docks, the townsfolk would respond to the familiar squeals of the calliope and gather excitedly to greet us. The previously quiet mooring would take on all the serenity of an angry ant’s nest! Our experienced crew would assume their assigned tasks. The gangplank would swing out. Freight would be carted in and out; ropes would secure us to the wharf, and the town’s enchanted children would swarm the docks in the thralls of religious ecstasy. The boys especially; the girls, not so much.
Hannibal was a favorite stop. Here, the lazy river was wide, deep, and as inviting as bathwater. The shouted declaration of “mark twain” indicated that the water’s depth was sufficient to allow for the safe mooring of our craft. The familiar boatman’s term would eventually become the celebrated moniker of America’s master wordsmith, the beloved Samuel Langhorne Clemens, aka Mark Twain.
During my time on the Mississippi, little Sam would have been a number of years shy of sporting whiskers, and already infatuated with steamboats. Sam would grow up on the banks of the Mississippi near Hannibal, Missouri and freely admit to having burned with ambition to become a steamboat pilot. In “Life on The Mississippi”, Mark Twain would write the following:
“When I was a boy, there was but one permanent ambition among my comrades in our village on the west bank of the Mississippi River. That was, to be a steamboatman. We had transient ambitions of other sorts, but they were only transient. When a circus came and went, it left us all burning to become clowns; the first negro minstrel show that came to our section left us all suffering to try that kind of life; now and then we had a hope that if we lived and were good, God would permit us to be pirates. These ambitions faded out, each in its turn; but the ambition to be a steamboatman always remained.”
During a few glorious years, between 1857 and 1861, Sam would realize his boyhood ambition of becoming a riverboat pilot. Then the Civil War would intervene, and Sam’s dream would go the way of many others. But the irresistible lure of the riverboat and its steady grip on youthful fancy would captivate the souls and imaginations of the young and young at heart for as long as the summer sun steals ambition, and the Mississippi flows inexorably toward the sea.
Copyright ©
Shannon Thomas Casebeer
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