Jean Bell Mosley's new autobiography, "For Most of the Century," is only avakilable in serialized form in the Southeast Missourian. Return each week for her continuing story.

1990

By 1990 I was beginning to feel like a Cape Girardeau Old Timer. An English teacher in the city school system asked me to write three model paragraphs about Cape Girardeau for a student workbook. There were a great many who had lived here longer than I, but I was pleased to be asked.

I knew immediately that one paragraph would be about the river upon whose banks my city of Cape Girardeau was built, the Mississippi.

I love flowing waters. They speak to me of renewal and refreshment. I have lived by rivers all my life. First there was the St. Francis, not over a quarter mile from our doorstep. It was a pussy cat compared to the great tawny lion of the Mississippi. But, in it I learned to swim, to fish, and on it, to skate. Its waters were fresh, clean, and cool. At least fresh, clear and clean then. We thought nothing at all about cupping up a handful of its water to drink, or even, if a place was handy, to lie on our stomach and sip the cool water.

It flowed into, and lingered in, deep pools underneath overhanging bluffs. Then, as if tired of that, flowed on to shallow, pebble-bottomed beds studded with big rocks that made the waters splash and gurgle like water fairies at play. Moving ever onward it would flow over smoothly- surfaced boulders that made it murmur mysteriously and soothingly.

It was the St. Francis that murmured over the rocks nearby on that day when I shut my eyes and said that simple little prayer and my life changed.

I crossed that river thousands of times by swinging bridge, by horseback, in buggies and wagons, by stepping stones when it ran shallow or barefoot when the hot days came.

Lou and I fished for perch from a place we simply called the Flat Rock. It was a large rock that jutted slightly over the water. Paper ash, maples, oaks, willows, elms and sycamores cast a dappled shade all up and down the banks on both sides.

Sometimes when we wearied of keeping an eye on the fishing corks, we would lie back and look up through the green canopy and try to spot the birds that were singing, or count the "plops" resident frogs made.

The river was as much a part of my growing up as the house, the barn, the cows, horses, hogs, chickens and cats. It was ours where it passed through our fields. Like Stevenson's "Lamplighter," we felt very lucky to have it before our door and the waters brought peace to us as it did to many more.

At one place where it passed by the meadow, it made a second channel and formed the Little Island as we always called it. Here we raised the biggest turnips even seen, and on its sandy bars, we picked up snail and mussel shells to admire the structure and the pearl-like inner shell.

The river had a quick temper after a sudden rain. Flowing through the valley with semi-steep mountains on both sides where the watershed was swift, within a few hours our wide meadow would be a lake. If this happened in spring and fall migrating time, we could look out the kitchen window and see wild geese and ducks there, where horses and cows usually roamed. Most of the time, though, it was a playful happy river and I loved it.

But now I was going to write a paragraph about the Mississippi River. A paragraph! Such stricture!

I wrote the paragraph. It was about the buoys that guided the traffic up and down the river.

When I came to live by the Mississippi, I felt that river-wise, I had matriculated water-wise upward about one thousand grades. The flood wall wasn't up then and I could go down cobblestoned Broadway, cross the railroad tracks and watch the river coming down out of the north, sometimes peaceful, sometimes furious, sometimes stilled by great chunks of ice.

I found that before dawn is the best time to go river visiting. I get up early to see if the day is going to be suitable. If Orion's star-studded belt is still visible and Cassiopeia's "M," or "W" is hanging up there almost overhead, I know it will be just right to watch the dawn's early light on the waters. Timing is important. I want to arrive at the water's edge while there is still a pearly-pink on the eastern horizon.

I must go through the gate in the flood wall now. If the day is calm, coming out of the misty grayness up river, the flowing river appears to be a huge length of pink satin rolling by my feet for inspection. Just in case I might not like that hue, the pink gradually turns to apricot and then rippled gold-liquid, colors you couldn't see in any other spectrum. Save for the gentle lap-lap at the water's edge, there is silence. Always a flock of birds fly overhead making a pretty, black, changing pattern against the sky. They fly westward as if to escape some coming fire in the east. They, too, are silent as if in awe of what is happening on the eastern horizon.

In the hush of the hour I feel the strength of the place. The old familiar cobblestones, nestling close to each other as if for some last-ditch stand, the newer concrete, great metal rings at the top of boat docking posts, the thick cables strung between protecting metal posts, all speak of intense power. Even the river, although it may look like pink satin at the moment, could it speak, might say, "Power? You want power? I light up the whole Mississippi Valley from Lake Itaska to New Orleans with the electricity I furnish. When I'm rollin' good I put 2,300,000 cubic feet of water into the Gulf every second."

I eye-pick a place amongst the river trees on the opposite bank where I think Phoebus "'gin rise to roll his chariot across the skies," and keep adjusting my guesses.

No matter how many sunrises a person sees, when that first little portion of the sun appears, it is still a thrill. It is so many times brighter than the concentrated bright glow all around that I'm eternally surprised that anything could still show up and stand out in that super brightness. But there it is, a little arch at first, then a half circle, a three-quarters circle. By the time the full roundness is up I can no longer look at it head-on. I close my eyes and whisper, "God, you made a beautiful sunrise this morning."

A long train goes by on the other side of the flood wall, whistling and chugging, "Commerce, commerce! America's commerce!" Far down river one can usually see the tugboats coming, flags flying. More silent than the trains, they echo, in watery tones, "More commerce, more commerce!" Their passing sends waves up to my feet.

If I stand where the sun makes a bridge across the river (and wherever you stand, it does this), it appears to be melted gold being offered up at my feet. I feel as rich as Croesus with all the morning freshness and beauty all around and the gift of another new day, all free.

I see, in my mind's eye, Huckleberry Finn, way over there close by those river trees. That's old Jim with him, poling along. And here, closer to midstream, are Marquette and Joliet paddling by, full of purpose. The smoke down river? It's from the Natchez and the Mississippi Queen or maybe even the Cotton Blossom. I hear, in my mind's ear, the calliope, and someone softly singing, "Old Man River, you just keep on rollin' along."

Rivers have such a singleness of purpose which is to flow somehow, some way to the sea, aloof from what man throws in it, floats on it, or takes from it. Locks and dams and piers and bridges, floating houseboats and other man-made things here and there can make it hesitate for a while as if momentarily perplexed, but nothing stops it for long.

Contemplating the strength of a river's determination to make its own right-of-way, in spite of what man puts in its way, makes one examine his own life. One may ask, has any obstacle been erected to divert me from my goals, my values, the things I hold dear, the end result I wish to achieve? Take a hint from the river wash it out of your way, go around it, flow over it, keep to the course you have chosen and as the river pilot would say, "Steady as you go."

~Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.