Wonder Whales of the Ohio

Look at that Moocher

To take on the life of a story teller I suppose would have many triggers. For myself it was seeing things others apparently did not, or didn't want to speak of. There is one thing that I never shared with anyone, my love and connection to the Ohio River and how it has molded and shaped much of my life. To share this tale we will have to go all the way back. 

I was the kid nobody wanted. Loosing my biological parents before age of two for reasons I would rather not get into. The courts asked everyone family member of legal age to take me in. Only my grandfather would step forward only to see me not lost to the system. My step grandmother seen that nice account that came with me and agreed. 

Great grandpa Dutch was a wonderful man, one who truly cared. We went everywhere together, and every weekend we would head to Florence to the flea market. As soon as I could walk and travel to get water for our cistern I was given my first beer by him and my grandpa. We took road trips all over and he would tell me tales of WWII that he never shared with anyone else. I was Dutchy to him something I learned wasn't an endearing word in college, but if a boy could ever honor a man it would be him. 

The first Thanksgiving I could actually get up and run around and feed myself was almost magical butternut squash, buttery mashed potatoes, gravy, all the turkey you could eat and more. There was this amazing little white china plate with gold trim that held baby pickles and this tantalizing little green ball with magical red soft wonder inside. I must have cleared those off at least eight times. After dinner was done and everyone settled into the livingroom to let their food digest I found myself sneaking back to that dining room table to snag more of those salty delightful little green balls of mouth watering pleasure. Grandpa Dutch caught me one fated trip and hollered out, "Look at that little moocher sneaking back at the table again." To which I turned and replied, "I like moochers." With a mouth full of olives. 

I would be in my early teens before I ever found out 'moochers' were called olives by normal folks. Though I say my love of them has never ended. Given the chance I'll still eat a jar full without thinking. 

All merry times come to an end. Grandpa and Grandma Dutch moved back to upstate New York. My grandpa passed away when I was five. I was stuck with my dear wicked step grandmother. That big old farmhouse up on Johnson Hill slowly started to loose its magic. Ever slowly the shadows faded in.