Sometimes we miss what is right there in front of us. Or what is very near and yet we are totally unaware it's there.
Today I worked once again at my Ravenswood booth. It was a long day, and in the course of it a young woman came in and bought my "Dark Horse", a large black sculpture I had bought for a dollar at an auction because it was repaired. She loved it, and I was happy to sell it for $15 and know it would be appreciated, damage and all.
The horse is very heavy, 30 pounds or so, so I offered to deliver it after I finished work, to her apartment just a few blocks away.
Oddly, I had never noticed the old apartment building, snuggled down between the railroad tracks and the Ohio River. And I also did not recall seeing a hidden, narrow street that ran right along the river's edge. Ravenswood is a very small town, and I thought I knew every street! I moseyed along, thinking of how it might have been back when George Washington first explored and claimed this land.
The railroad captures the quiet, seemingly forgotten air of the riverbank, even though these tracks are still very much in use.
I well remember pulling a large wagon with my 4 little boys in it down to the ferry, where the operator would give us a free ride across the river.
One day we were driving back into Ravenswood after a day working on our house, and followed behind the oddest little vehicle. My husband said it was a car that could be driven on land or water, called the AmphiCar. I was amazed, so we followed the car down to the ferry landing. The river was quite high, but the little car drove right in. My little boys started screaming and crying and we realized that they thought the man was going to drown! It took a lot of explaining, and 10-cent ice cream cones at the Dairy Bell, to get them settled down. The little car, of course, made it safely across. We later learned that the gentleman who owned the car lived in Ohio, worked at the aluminum plant on our side of the river, and this was his commuter car.
Further along, this huge maple tree caught my eye. How old could it be? The silver maples in my yard are 50 years old and their trunks do not equal this one. It certainly must have been there during the 1937 flood that inundated the town.
I stopped here a moment, and a woman wearing a rather bad wig came walking along. We chatted a moment. "I love to walk," she said. "I'm 85 and I have to keep moving." Judging by her pace, she may well be around another 85 years, bad wig and all.
And then it was time to head home.
