Boat People
The Source
I’m not sure what I’ve learned about music or the birds of the Illinois River or the workings of a paddle wheeler, but my stint as piano player on the Spirit of Peoria riverboat has taught me a great deal about people….traveling people…. Especially those with a few years behind them. Our boat hauls about a hundred or so folks up or downstream from Peoria every week and I’ve begun to unconsciously categorize them. I can’t help it. Some are local but most come from a broad spectrum of states, occupations and nationalities. Still…as varied as their backgrounds might be, they share so many of the same characteristics. The Eternal Mama. Whether her name is Marie or Juanita, she’s on every trip. This lady will not be waited upon. She’s spent her lifetime serving others and it’s pure humiliation for her to have someone clear her table after lunch on the second deck. She’ll say, “Oh no! I’ll get it!” and she’ll quickly rise to her feet and begin hauling dishes for the entire table. “You really don’t have to do that, M’am. I’ll get it.” “No, no, no! It’s no bother. Now where I do I put these things?” I’m often tempted to hand Marie/Juanita a mop and tell her that the floor of the first deck is covered with Asian carp if she’d like to try a little fish-swabbing. The Love Birds. They’re usually in their seventies or eighties, one is often a bit frail and in need of tending by the other, and they always gravitate to the rocking chairs on the forward section of the second deck. They sit there rocking, watching the river go by, and most often holding hands until or the other (and sometimes both) fall asleep. I always wish I knew their backstory. Sometimes I ask, but most often I simply watch them…cruising by the towns of Henry, LaSalle, Havana, rewarding themselves with a couple days of just sitting, just holding hands, just enjoying each other’s company and no doubt wondering how many trips they have remaining. The Commander is always male, always a bit pot-bellied, always a bit loud, and always sneaking a Bud Lite when his wife goes to stroll around the top deck. He’s full of questions about the boat’s engines, the speed we’re making (or on a paddle wheeler “not making”), the distance traveled, and the construction of the boat. I know very few answers but The Commander is always a good conversationalist and frankly he just likes talking so I gladly listen. He’ll tell you about his lifetime of work, his travels, his prostate problems, and he’ll tell you that kids today just don’t know how to work. The Commander is very concerned with the fate of the country, and it’s best to agree with him even if you’re more worried about citizens who are afraid of change than teenage loafers. He’s a good guy...he really is. And if his wife happens to find a third deck chaise lounge and falls asleep, he’ll have another Bud Lite and will tell you the “real cause” of global warming. Mrs. Marlin Perkins is easy to spot. She trudges onto The Spirit of Peoria with two cameras, a tripod, and three sets of binoculars around her neck, sets up her bird sanctuary on the first deck, and can crush you flat if you’re in her way when someone shouts, “Oh look! An eagle!” Estelle. That’s actually her name. She lives in a Peoria retirement community and takes at least five trips a summer with us. Estelle’s on a walker, she likes real Pepsi, not “that awful diet stuff,” and she misses her husband very much. Our boat has four decks so Estelle doesn’t move around much. She’ll stake out a seat in the dining room and hope that some friendly souls will join her for lunch. If they don’t, then Rick, our First Mate, will sit down beside her. After lunch she’ll slowly make her way to the second deck and take in the entertainment. I don’t think Estelle has ever made it to the top decks. Maybe next time I’ll carry her up. Our captain is a rather handsome young fellow and Estelle adores him. She slept…I’m not kidding…with his picture beside her bed. Two years ago he forgot to shake her hand and give her a hug as she left the boat. She now sleeps with a picture of First Mate Rick. It would have made a funnier column if I’d written about the obnoxious guess, the overly demanding passengers, and the genuine grouches, but frankly we just don’t have many. Maybe they’re on the Mississippi.