PIGEON PIE
PIGEON PIE
By John Thomas Tuft
I drive south from Pittsburgh, following the Ohio River down into West Virginia. I am on my way to the Long Reach area, the longest straight stretch of the mighty river. It is twenty miles long, flowing between Ohio and West Virginia. If you look from the middle of the river you can see one town seven miles upriver and another five miles downriver. Which brings me to my destination of Sistersville, WV, a town of maybe 1300 founded by two of the twenty Wells children, sisters Delilah and Sarah, decades before the surprising oil boom years of the 1890s. Wellsburg, in the northern panhandle above Wheeling, is where the Wells family migrated from as the family kept increasing in size, where their father had one of the largest flour warehouses going. If you don’t know the history of these towns where one of the last survivors of the Lewis and Clark expedition lived, can you really say you have mountain blood no matter that you know all the words to the John Denver anthem? Sistersville is the home of one of the last ferries in operation on the Ohio between the two states. Being from Pennsylvania and with West Virginia blood in me, I’m not going to tell you much about the Ohio side, other than the ferry lands at a place called Fly, Ohio and there’s not much more I could add. I’m only going there because that’s where the ferry lands.
The two dogs are in the truck with me; Casper, a great Pyrenees who believes days were invented for naps to prepare him for dinner before a good night’s sleep, and Rue, a little schizoid rag doll, who believes the rest of the world was invented just for her. And who knows which one is closer to a Weltanschauung of the truth of existence. The trip is basically uneventful. Casper woofs at every UPS truck he sees, and Rue is busy rearranging the menagerie of toys she brought along because one never knows. I am on a mission. I’d heard tell that the reclusive southern writer, C. R. Croix lives somewhere in the area. He wrote one bestselling barn burner called, King of the Bottom of the Sea and then disappeared, a la Harper Lee. I want to know what happened, ask his advice, learn from him. But all I’ve been told is, “Take the ferry.” That’s all. Nothing more, and that from an old drunk I came across in Point State Park. He had the temerity to wear a Cleveland Browns jersey on that sacred ground, so I took if for what it was worth. Ohio believes it is the only true state and everybody else wishes they were Ohio.
Yet here I was, driving through the old streets of Sistersville close to 6pm. The ferry operates from 6am to 6pm and then does three-hour dinner cruises, catered by a local restaurant and featuring some blue grass, to boot. When I arrived at the loading ramp, the ferry was moored, and two young men were unloading barrels of whatever Ohio had sent across. “Excuse me,” I ventured. “I’m looking for C. R. Croix. Can you help me?” They never looked up. “You know, the writer?” One of them shrugged. “Do we look like writers?” I kept on. “He’s old now.” The other young man let out a hoot. “We’re all old now.” He looked me up and down. “You ain’t river. What are you doin’ here?” The fumes in the air from the barrels were already making my fair skin itch. “I want to find C. R. Croix.” “What if he don’t want to be found? You kin of his?” I allowed as how I was not, but that it was important. “He owe you money, too?” I scratched at my face furiously. “No, no. I want…I want to meet him.” They both stared at me. “He don’t want to meet anybody.” Then another shrug and a wave. “Get on.”
The ferry captain up in the wheelhouse gunned the motor and I drove onto the small platform. I looked back but the two men were gone. Off the portside sat a small enclosure, about the size of two phone booths. A gentle lurch and we were in the river currents. In the middle of the Ohio, the boat turned into the current and gunned the engine just enough to keep it in one place. Confused, I got out of the truck, reassured the dogs, and went to the small doorway beneath the pilot house. I went up the ladder into the wheelhouse. A man stood there, his back to me, a figure in a tan, very rumpled seersucker suit. At least, I think it was tan. Maybe at one time it had been white. Chopped gray hair stood out in every direction and what I could see of his beard was yellowed white tufts. He turned and I was startled to see that both of his eyes were taped shut with flesh colored Band Aids. “No,” he uttered and turned away. “I wanted to meet you,” I began. He put his head down on the wheel. “No.” I took a step. “It’s been my dream…” C. R. Croix bounced his head off the instrument panel. “No.” Damn itchy face made me sound whiny as I tried again. “Sir, I’ve admired your work…” He interrupted by raising his head and peeling back one Band Aid. “Well, bless your heart.” Put it back in place. “No.” I stood there silently as minutes ticked by. “I know who you are,” he muttered finally. He turned to face me, Band Aids still in place. “It was just a story.”
I didn’t know if this was a case of anosognosia, or what. Maybe Ohio wasn’t so bad. “This is what you do now?” I was a bit incredulous. He lifted one Band-Aid. “Heroes are like pigeon pie.” I stammered, “Ho — how do you know where you’re going?” He put the strip back over the eye. He took the wheel and headed back the way we’d come. “Ask somebody sometime for some passenger pigeon pie. Nobody wants to be the last passenger pigeon. You do you and in your own way.” He effortlessly guided the ferry back to shore. The dogs were mildly curious about the journey as I climbed back in, grateful that I didn’t end up in Ohio. We headed back through town and on into the future. Eyes wide open…
Words are magic and writers are wizards.
