A River Runs Through It⁽¹⁾

In March I quietly passed my 30th anniversary at my job. The fanfare was quiet, reserved and private. The small number of heartfelt and envious wishes I got (I am now eligible to retire) was appreciated. And then April arrived and I realized that I have now lived in the Hudson Valley of New York for a good bit more than half my life. More interesting (and inspiring a move into the center of the river?) is the fact that 15 years of that time were spent on the west side of the Hudson River ⁽²⁾ and 15 years on the east side.

I grew up in a town with a big lake in the center of it. So “the other side of the lake” or “go around the north end of the lake and then...” kinds of directions were not unfamiliar. We had the Red Cedar River too – meandering thru the county and teaching me about canoeing rules as we neglected to think about how to get back home after we canoed downstream. But these experiences did not prepare me for the impact that the Hudson River has had on my life for 30 years. In the most subtle ways. And it's begun to teach me geography. Now, instead of imagining myself at my desk in my childhood bedroom remembering that “towards uptown is north, the back yard is east, Main St. is west, so that leave ‘south’ behind me”, I use the River to map my rather inferior sense of N-S-E-W. And which bridge crossing is closest to the “other side of the river” destination dujour. (The accompanying photo is from the east side of the Hudson River, with the Catskill Mountains in the west.)

Recently, in a discussion of the “globalization of the economy”, someone commented that 'geography no longer matters”. I laughed secretly, believing that at long last I didn't actually need to learn geography. It no longer mattered. In the next hour I was asked where “customer xyz” was and the answer “England” didn't suffice. They wanted to know WHERE in England and that place's relationship to something well known, like the city of London (where is that again?).

My peculiar uninterest in geography was instilled in me by my mother, who probably still says “I know two directions—up and down” when the topic comes up and though her rather considerable map reading ability guided us through many a summer vacation I always cling to the idea that I don't have to worry about geography—“Mom doesn't”.

When I first moved to the Hudson Valley in 1974, the idea of “crossing the river” seldom came up. It was a faraway place and I only did it with friends to go shopping in far away Fishkill. Or to go into the wilds of New York City to visit previously “distant” relatives who now were close at hand. The fact that the nearest bridge crossing the Hudson—the Kingston/Rhinecliff bridge—was only about 2 miles from my office didn't seem to faze me in my sense of “remoteness”.

I have a vivid memory of calling a friend the day someone asked in a business meeting whether the CIA⁽³⁾ was on this side of the river or the other. Things like that are humorous now. Then they were embarrassing and proof that geography “does matter”.

On September 11, 2001, I was on the “east side” of the river and my partner Jay was on the “west side”. The separation seemed immense and the added knowledge that the hijacked planes had used the Hudson to guide them to New York City put a new fear into us. Since then, each time I cross the river, I think of that horrible day. I wonder when the State Police stationed at the ends much of the time will actually find someone doing mischief to the bridges.

But I love the river and its influence on my life, my sense of “place” and connectedness to history. Jay still laughs at me when I draw a map placing myself at the bottom of the page and drawing up the page as if I’m going to lay it out in front of me as I drive along, but I place my internal compass along the edge of the river and imagine the map and plot my way. I still get lost regularly, but have begun to say aloud that I never get too lost even in the bowels of Poughkeepsie because I can always sense where the river is and just edge over to it.

(2) The Hudson River is actually an estuary, flowing both north and south through the affect of ocean tides and is salty all the way to our beloved Poughkeepsie.