It’s
just past sunrise in Marietta. I am on a rooftop witnessing traffic hum across
the bridge to West. Va. and through this oddly Midwestern-Eastern-Southern
rivertown. It’s a gentle morning after rain. Early October and only a glint of
color. I am at the level of birds in trees. A ghostly grey cloud whisps across
the river. Light emerges, but no burst of sun. Craving a cup of coffee, Ia sit
to write before I rewalk the labyrinthine passage back to the lobby four floors
below. I could rest here. Write here. Breathe here. The glassy Ohio and
Muskinghum rivers reminders of depth and Spirit’s pace.
The
moment breaks and I head to the local coffee shop, Jerimiah’s, to work. I order
a decaf and am greeted with five bean options. They’ll actually brew me a cup.
I ask for the richest, Costa Rican, and sit down to wait. I sip and write til
9, when I meet my husband for the complimentary hotel breakfast, the most
substantial ever. I order poached eggs, ham and hash browns. Coffee, juice and
toast or an English muffin are included. Reminds me of the most meager breakfast
ever: I was pregnant, staying atop a hill on Catalina Island, isolated from the
rest of the town. Their idea of sustenance was mealy apples and bagged bread to
toast yourself. Back then I wasn’t gluten free, so wolfed down – eating for two
– multiple bags of bread. This breakfast, however, was a delight.
Filled,
we take a walk down Front Street, veering off toward the banks of the bucolic
Muskinghum River and across a foot bridge, nestled against railroad tracks to a
very old village, Harmar, apparently the original Marietta settlement. Apparently the Paris lovers’ locks have
hit here, but town mothers and fathers have ingeniously kept their bridge from
buckling to the extra weight by chaining iron planters to the railroad bridge
on which locks can be hooked. Several older men on bikes stride by; this is the
perfect place for cycling. We jaunt past the Harmar Tavern, lively and
authentic, and through a downtown closed up for the season. Harmar is a peek
into Americana with tree-lined streets and clapboard houses. 
I
stop at a corner shop and learn from its owner, a member of Main Street
Marietta, the city struggles since the loss of two attractions: the closing of
Fenton Art Glass and the Becky Thatcher show boat. She’s helping plan a
Who-ville themed Christmas to attract visitors and energy to the city. She also
confirms the hauntedness of the area. “My sister lives on a hillside built on a
mound and her house is extremely haunted. When people cut into an Indian mound,
there was a lot of activity.” Her information is confirmed by the Hidden Ohio
map I picked up before our trip. It lists sacred, Native-American, natural and
haunted sites as well as places people have reported Big Foot and aliens. It’s
a beautifully printed, fantastic tour guide. Later in the evening, I’ll flip on
a Discovery Channel show tracking the Yeti (as Big Foot is known is Asia) in
the Himalays. Serendipity?
History
draws us to the Marietta Antique Mall. As new empty-nesters, I’m not really
looking for anything, but this is the real deal. I peruse fascinating relics,
including a movable gout stool and a print of dogs playing pool. I easily pass
on those, but ponder a wooden case full of rubber letters for printing. I think
long and hard about using this with my art students, but don’t want to drag it
home. Rooting through the implements, pottery and chests, I feel a connection
to the past and wonder if that is lost on a generation that only wants new. It
pains me to see old, family photographs orphaned in sale bins, like the in a
well-curated collectible/gift shop on Front Street, Green Acres. Vintage images
were touted as “fabulous.” My husband was charmed by a case of dream cameras,
of which, unfortunately, the owners knew the true value.
Walking
and piddling into the afternoon, we ventured by car to see Marietta College and
grab a picnic lunch, which we spread out on our hotel rooftop with an Indian
summer – sans the hard frost – sun beating down. Perhaps the best place on the
planet in that moment.
I
spend the late afternoon soaking up the warmth, then we drive to another side
of town and up some hills for a grand view of the river valley below. We end at
a cemetery surrounding Conus Mound, holding the remains of native Chieftains
encased by Revolutionary War soldiers and Marietta residents. The juxtaposition
is odd, but not as much as the steps up to the top of the mound. Holding the
iron railing on the way down, I ask my husband if he thinks anyone ever died on
these treacherous steps. “This would be a convenient place,” he says, repeating
my thoughts precisely.
We
head toward the hotel, park and walk into Gater’s, a locals’ bar we scoped out
the night before when it was closed. There’s a big guy at the bar who offers to
push a seat over so we can sit together, there, at the bar, HIS bar. He’s
Gater, nicknamed as a member of a motorcycle gang because he stood back and
observed like a gater. He’s grateful when we tell him we chose his place over
the local microbrewery because we wanted a “real” bar. He was re-roofing the building that
housed several businesses, including a rough bar, when the owner asked if he
could do something with it. Now into his sixth season, Gater remodeled everything,
knocking out walls, creating a music venue and adopting a pirate theme.
We
have two beers, then head back to snack on lunch leftovers in our room since we
see of sign of food at Gater’s – it’s purely a bar. A good one.
