The sundowners

Cliff West and Mildred Fox have been coming to the Mississippi River in Cape Girardeau individually for decades. But in 1990, both West and Fox lost their spouses. Already acquainted by their fondness for the timeless waterway, they started toting their lawn chairs to Riverside Park together. There the widow and widower sit, visit and try to fill the void left by those lost.

They are sundowners.

The sundowners are a fluctuating clan of a dozen or so locals who bring their lawn chairs almost every evening to sit by the river as the sun sets behind the concrete floodwall.

But they can't seem to agree on why.

"We're old and don't have anything better to do," says West, relaxing in his lawn chair, facing the river on the south side of the Broadway floodgate. "We watch the boats go by if there are any, talk and kid each other."

West retired as an Illinois boilermaker 21 years ago. He's been coming here off and on for longer than he can remember.

"Almost since the river got here," he quips.

"Oh come on," interjects Fox from her chair to West's left.

"We're as old as some of the trees on the other side," West continues, pointing across the rolling water.

"Oh shut up," Fox says, cutting him off.

To the left of Fox is Galvin Dillingham, who lost his wife two years ago. At that time, he started toting his chair to the river. Since then, he's gotten to be good friends with West, Fox and the other sundowners. From their perch in the expanding shadow of the floodwall, these three watch the river flow by, enjoy the cool breeze sweeping off the water's surface and thrash out the problems of the world.

"They started taking the old bridge down Tuesday morning," West announces, citing his private sources.

"Yeah, it ain't down like you said it would be," Dillingham pokes at West, pointing to the distant and dormant Mississippi River bridge to the south. "They didn't build it in one day, they won't take it down in one day."

"That's right," West replies.

"My father helped sand hog those tiers," Dillingham continues. "I think sand hog's the word for it."

"I think the river's rising," interjects Fox, changing the subject.

"Yep, more stuff floating down," West says.

The typical sundowner

Sundowners usually arrive at the river between 6:30 p.m. and 8 p.m. in the summer. They typically stay until the sun sets behind them or at the latest until the mosquitoes take over the park after darkness sets in. Some are married couples, others are widows or widowers. Most are retired.

They've spent so much time here, they say, riverboat captains occasionally will recognize them and wave and honk as they pass.

When they enter the park through the Broadway floodgate with folded-up lawn chairs under their shoulders and binoculars dangling from their necks, sundowners filter into one of two seemingly friendly camps. One is set up to the north of the gate, the other, to the south.

"If you're a Republican, that's where you sit," West says matter-of-factly pointing at the northern sect. "We're Democrats here."

That's not what the northsiders say.

"We're Democrats and they're Republicans," explains north sundowner Barbara Bower. When told what the other camp claims, she throws her hands up, laughs and exclaims, "Oh whatever! We don't argue with anyone's politics or religion here."

Then her tone quiets.

"But we do discuss them."

Bower is seated beside Mary Dunham on the north side of the northern camp. Their husbands, Bill Dunham and John Bower, are seated together at the south end of the line. The two couples have been die-hard sundowners for the past decade.

"As soon as the weather gets warm, we start coming out," Barbara says.

"Warm weather? I remember coming out here in sweaters and coats," says Mary Dunham. Indeed, this group has been seen sitting in their chairs beneath umbrellas in the rain, watching the water and visiting later than 9:30, long after the sun has disappeared.

With the river before them, the group has celebrated birthdays with cake and ice cream on a fold-out card table. They've shared histories and problems, exchanged sympathies in harder times. They've brought their photo albums from family trips, vegetables from their gardens and food from their kitchens to share. And of course, they've talked, talked, talked the sun behind many a horizon. They're like family. Tonight, as is usually the case, the gathering is missing some members.

"You reckon Tom's at a convention or something?" John Bower asks his wife.

Simultaneously Barbara and Mary hush him up.

"Betty's sister," they collectively whisper, pointing out an illness in the extended family, not wanting to divulge it to the entire world.

Tom and Betty Ross are especially esteemed members of the northside camp. Tom is a retired engineer who spent much of his career working on riverboats. As the boats go by, Tom offers special insight to their mechanics, history and purpose. Betty had been keeping detailed records of all boats that passed and a registry of the sundowners in attendance on any given night. She stopped doing it after filling two books. They still use those logs as reference for conflicting recollections as they arise in the conversation.

Different walks of life

Jan Chamberlain arrives at the northern camp at about 7:45 p.m. By this time there are 15 sundowner lawn chairs on the walk. Wearing a yellow Alaska T-shirt, Chamberlain has brought her chair and a photo album of her recent trip up north. As she hands her album to Barbara and Mary, John Bower stands up, puts his binoculars to his eyes and examines a piece of debris floating in the river.

"What is it? A tire?" he thinks aloud.

A retired school teacher, Chamberlain used to come here with her late husband, Bill, and after his passing she just continued coming. She enjoys the exchange of points of view from sundowners who come from so many different walks of life.

"We've got retired postmasters, truck drivers, nurses, cake decorators, teachers and farmers," Chamberlain says, pointing at the sundowners as she goes down the line.

"Is it a piece of wood?" Bower guesses again.

"You learn so many different things," Chamberlain continues, impervious to the separate conversations that have broken out around her.

"It's an old wooden cable spool," says Calvin Brennan definitively, having borrowed Bower's binoculars and looked for himself. Satisfied, Bower sits back down beside his wife and examines Chamberlain's photo album. New topics arise and fade.

After 8:30 p.m., the sky turns purple and the surface of the once dark water is glazed in a shimmering silver reflection of twilight. The last daylight is slowly following its source, which has set in the West. One by one and two by two, the sundowners unfold their bodies, fold up their chairs and depart. Most of them will be back -- same time, same place -- tomorrow.

trehagen@semissourian.com

335-6611, extension 137

About a dozen Cape Girardeau residents sat in their lawn chairs by the Mississippi River behind the concrete floodwall on Wednesday evening. The group, which fluctuates in size, gathers almost daily as the sun sets. (DON FRAZIER * dfrazier@semissourian.com)