Through a Glass Darkly for April 24, 2008
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When I was a child, crossing the Mississippi River on one of its numerous ferries always stoked my imagination.
On a good day in the 1950s, traveling with my father, I might get to cross the river on two different boats.
Each of the ferries had its own personality. My favorite was the “Louisiana,” one of the two that ran between Baton Rouge and Port Allen. Older than some of the others, it was big and its engines were the most powerful machines I had ever seen up close.
From the bottom deck my father showed me the huge drive arms that pushed the hidden paddle wheels. No matter how many times we crossed the river, watching the unstoppable surges of those treelike beams always fascinated me.
After a couple of minutes, he’d drag me up the stairs to the second deck for a better view of the river itself.
My father once dropped my mom and me off to ride to Baton Rouge as pedestrians. That wasn’t as much fun. My mother didn’t want to go down to look at the engines.
When my father would drive up to the ferry landing, he always took a quick count of the waiting cars to see if we’d make it onto the next load.
To me even waiting for the ferry was fun. The two boats danced across the river shooting smoke from their stacks and tooting at the other river traffic. The destinations of those other vessels made great speculation.
I didn’t just enjoy the anticipation of the ferry ride, but also liked the carnival atmosphere at the landings. One man sold unshelled peanuts in little brown bags that my father could always find a couple of nickels to buy. Another man, wearing white robes and carrying a cross, tried to get people to be baptized in the muddy water. I never saw anybody take him up on it, but he always seemed to be there.
On warm days people got out of their cars and walked down to the river edge or clumped in little groups to talk or listen to someone’s radio. When the ferry coupled with the dock and cars began to stream off, people rushed back to their vehicles and started their engines.
Then the real adventure began. The ramp seemed narrow. I was glad it was my father who had to drive on board and follow the instructions of the men who positioned the maximum number of vehicles on the deck.
On cold, rainy days I felt sorry for them in their dripping slickers and crossed that off the list of jobs I wanted when I grew up.
Piloting the ferry was a different matter. As the giant engine roared to life, I could imagine being at the wheel. Since then I’ve learned that the pilot actually operated the huge wheel with a tiller and the horn with a brass footpad, neither of which fit my childhood imaginings. Still, it was quite a piece of machinery to have at your command.
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