LETTERS FROM HOME: HEADING DOWN INTO THE MYSTERY BELOW

Dear Leslie,

Here in Missouri, we are defined by rivers. The greatest of rivers draws a swirling brown line down our eastern border bound for the Gulf of Mexico. One hundred years ago, smaller rivers to the west became a bog as they emptied into the lowlands below Crowley's Ridge. Then engineers diverted the rivers into the Mississippi, transforming millions of acres of mosquito habitat into agricultural gold. A few people got rich. Some counties that were once swamp are now just dirt poor. We are defined by rivers.

On weekend mornings and evenings in the spring and summer, DC and I often ride our bicycles south toward the Diversion Channel or north toward another border, Cape Rock. Going east would require crossing the increasingly rickety Mississippi River bridge. We don't even like doing that in a car. West is the interstate highway where Cape Girardeau is growing. A river of cars and trucks runs north and south.

As a kid, I didn't understand the significance of the Diversion Channel, that it was part of what was at the time the largest drainage project in history. Heck, I thought it was called the Virgin Channel, not questioning the logic of the name any more than I questioned the logic of the Virgin Mary.

It was a border. Below was Scott City, Benton, Sikeston and a vaguely mysterious placed called the Bootheel.

John Hartford became famous for writing "Gentle on my Mind," but folkies love him for his river songs, for his undilutable talents and the generosity of his spirit. Johnny Cash once wrote of him: "He is great but doesn't know it."

In 1979, he recorded an album of riverboat songs called "Headin' Down Into the Mystery Below." A friend in California gave it to me because he thought there must be something special about growing up next to the Mississippi River. John Hartford, who grew up in St. Louis, thought so, too. He loved riverboats, lived on them for some periods of his life. Up and down the Mississippi he went.

Though I haven't listened to the album in decades, I still remember the title song. It's just Hartford's comforting voice, his banjo and his boot tapping out a rhythm on a piece of plywood. The song lovingly evoked the adventure of life on the river but seemed to speak of seeking an even greater mystery.

John Hartford died in Nashville this week. As his health failed in the weeks before, hundreds of musicians and friends came from all over the country to see him. On the Internet, others shared news about his illness. A river of love flowed.

And at Cape Rock in the early morning sun, the Mississippi River glistens and swirls still heading down into the mystery below.

Love, Sam

Sam Blackwell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.