Tour Diary: Down A Lazy River

(June 22, 2012) KNOXVILLE, TN – Today what I needed was to get out on the water. So that’s just what I did, courtesy of River John and the Little River.

My new friend Clint, who’s been carting me all over Knoxville, drove me out to Maryville, Tennessee, to a tiny island in the Little River, where I met River John, a retired Lucent worker who now lives on the little island and rents canoes. He also rents the island itself for weddings and parties. And a music festival.

River John and I got his truck and talked as we headed up the river toward where we were going to launch my canoe. River John told me he’d worked for Lucent for 34 years, since way back when it was called Bell South. He’d spent most of his time on the road, home just on weekends, for the last 10 years of his career. He’d lived in many places, including New Orleans, which he said he eventually decided to leave because “you can only party so much.”

Quite a few weddings have happened on River John’s island, including his daughter’s and, in a couple weeks, his own. (Congrats, River John!)

“We’re having a Polish luau,” he said. “Did you ever hear of that?” I told him I hadn’t.

“I’m Polish,” he said. “A Polish luau is where you take a big cooker, like a kettle almost, and fill it with sausage and other meat and stuff. You pour beer all over it and slow cook it. It feeds a lot of people. I bought a special stainless steel canister made just for that. We’re going to test it this weekend on shrimp to make sure it works before the wedding.”

We drove up the river for about seven miles. The entry to the water was right near a combined barbecue joint and adult bookstore. “I used to say that was only possible in Tennessee,” River John said, “but people in Alabama told me they have them there, too.”

We put the canoe in the water right near a small dam. Adults, teens and small kids were playing in the pools of water formed by the dam and in the waterfall on the other side. River John gave me two paddles (“in case one gets away from you”) and a lifejacket. He also put some heavy rocks from the riverbed in the bow of the canoe to distribute the weight, since I would be going alone.

I hopped in, pushed off, and was immediately calmer than I’d been in days. This trip has been wonderful and exciting and intense and surprising, but very little of it has been relaxing. Never sleeping in my own bed, combined with being constantly on the go and meeting new people, means that I’ve very little time to process and decompress. These daily diaries help, but I really needed to spend a few hours with my phone off and my brain at ease. A few hours floating down Little River turned out to be better than therapy.

I wish I knew more about trees and plants and fish, because that would enable me to describe all the things I saw in more detail. The river was alive with fish of all sizes, from tiny little guys who swam in schools and darted around like bullets, to long, pointy-snouted fish with spots. These latter fish, I later learned, are called gar. I spotted a turtle, too. Tons of water bugs. And one majestic heron who I was never able to get a picture of, even when I stopped paddling and tried to glide in close. But what a site to see that heron lift off the water and wing his way through the shallow canyon formed by the trees along the banks of the river.

There were a couple tires in the water, too, but for the most part the river was very clean. Two local towns get their drinking water from the Little River, according to River John.

The river was low in many spots, though, so I had to do a fair amount of poling rather than paddling to get over rock shelves. And I even had to get out a time or two and pull the boat over patches that were almost dry. Most of the time, though, this Class 1 river had enough water to paddle. In several spots it was deep enough that you couldn’t see all the way down. I ran into other humans a few times, too, fishing or swimming or jumping off rope swings. One woman asked to buy the canoe.

I took quite a few pictures with my phone, but I realized later in the day that I’d set my ISO to 800 the night before at a club and never set it back, so many of the photos are a bit overexposed. Ah well. The best images are in my brain, anyway.

I took me about three hours to go the seven miles back to River John’s island. I stopped a few times and drifted a few times so I could write a poem or take pictures or just sit. And more than once I went through some small rapids and had to unwedge myself from a sticky spot. It was fabulous. I said later to Clint that one I get on the water I have a hard time understanding why I’m not always on it.

I paddled in to River John’s island and stowed the canoe, paddles and life vest. John was there with two other men who’d I say were in their late 50s or early 60s. Both of these men were drinking beer out of plastic cups and both had thick Southern accents. And once again, life delivered to me one of those slaps in the face I seem to need. After meeting them both, the older of the two, a man named Dewey, asked me where I was from. I told him Brooklyn. Turns out he’d gone to Pratt for graduate school and lived a block from where I’d lived the first time I lived in Brooklyn. He’d retired, but been in the arts all his life. And his wife had worked for Cosmopolitan, the world’s most evil magazine. Just goes to show me (again) not to assume I know anything at all about the people I meet.

Dewey’d been fishing on the river that afternoon. He’d gotten one of his lures stuck in a tree. When he stood up to free it, he turned over the canoe and lost his glasses. The lure cost $.40. The glasses cost $300. Whoops.

Clint came to pick me up and take me to an ATM because River John doesn’t take credit cards and I didn’t have cash or a check. We went back and I left the money under a fire barrel on his porch as he’d instructed because he had to go out for a while to help Dewey find his glasses.

We headed back to Knoxville so I could pack up my stuff. I called Nelda Hill, a local jazz supporter who’d arranged my poetry reading, to ask her for a ride to the reading. She showed up a little while later. I said goodbye to Clint and Hunter – two very nice guys and two very talented musicians.

Nelda took me to the Knoxville Museum of Art. A big band was playing classic swing music for a crowded room of dancers. I arrived just as the MC was making announcements, including an announcement about my reading, which was scheduled to follow the dance at the home of a local arts supporter. I’d sent flyers but they hadn’t been distributed at the show and no local media had covered my event, so I was a little worried that I might be reading to an empty room.

I looked at a great exhibit of photography on the first floor of the museum. Robert Frank, Diane Arbus, Danny Lyon and others who’d documented real life among regular folks in America.

After a while Nelda and I went to the home of Kay Newton, one of the founders of the Knoxville Writers Guild and the host of my reading. A singer named Horace Smith was there. We hit it off immediately. He was breaking up some ice and within a few minutes we’d created a new persona for him as the hitman “Icepick Horace.” Horace was there to sing a few songs during my reading.

The reading was scheduled for 9 p.m. By that time, the only folks there were Kay, Horace, Nelda and me. So we decided to wait, and slowly but surely people started arriving. By 10 p.m., when we actually started the event, we had a nice little crowd, including pianist and jazz giant Donald Brown and poet Carole Borges. Also in attendance was Senate candidate Evelyn Gill.

Horace started by singing a Luther Vandross song to recorded accompaniment. He has an amazing voice, which he’s used in many stage productions here in Knoxville. Then I read for about 15 minutes. I started with a poem I’d written for pianist Hank Jones, which seemed appropriate with another piano master in the room. Then I read one I’d written for organist Gene Ludwig. I read the poem I’d written in the canoe, then the two poems from Richmond, then some from one of the sets I’d put together for this tour. I read with a stopwatch running and assembled the set on the fly to appeal to the folks in the room.

After a few love poems, Horace sang another Luther song. Then I read for another 20 minutes, mostly from my book. I read all the poems about my Kentucky family and a few about the other side of my family. I think those really hit a chord with the folks who were there. I read more music poems (about Henry Grimes and Miles Davis) and one about Robert Frost. Then I closed with a love poem.

As soon as I finished, Kay said she wished she could keep me forever. “Well, maybe not forever, but for a long time.” I sold quite a few books and was very touched by the response.

Then it was off to the bus station because, well, because I’m crazy. I’m taking an 18-hour ride to NYC to see the person I’ve been dating since last year. Then I’ll head back down south. I’m not quite sure where yet, although I have to be in Atlanta by the 28th.

Knoxville is a great town and I know I’ll get back there someday. I’ll leave you with this shot of my Knoxville posse, Clint Mullican and Hunter Deacon:

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