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The Chemistry of Ferry in the Fifties©
By Don Iannone

Hardworking sons and daughters of immigrant warriors,
Brave souls, accustomed to long days and even longer nights,
Folks who sleep with their windows open during the summertime,
and pray for a breeze, even the slightest, to dry the sweat
trickling down the middle of their aching backs.
Silently worrying in their dark bedrooms about money, family, and health,
and hoping there really is a God, who can provide a miracle
to bring an end to their pain and suffering.
Even in all this suffering, there is a deeper chemistry
that makes up these people, their struggles, and their lives.

Men who cash their pay checks on Friday evenings
at the local A&P grocery store, and who always
forget at least one thing on their wife's shopping list.
Men with steel-hard hands with sandpaper rough calluses,
from turning wrenches, picking coal, and pounding
smoothness into bowed steel sheets.
Men who awkwardly hug their children,
hoping the chemistry helps them find their way in life
without too much pain and sorrow.

Like their parents and grandparents,
the people of Martins Ferry restlessly
and tirelessly search for the dream,
you know...the American Dream.
Like the thick, lazy stream of smoke
drifting from the chimneys atop their houses,
their dreams form heavy 1950s clouds,
keeping them from seeing beyond today's bills,
and their sick child who must go to the doctor.

Children shoot marbles, cat's eyes and boulders,
under the giant tree on the Elm School playground.
The sun breaks through the clouds, just for a moment,
but long enough to keep the faint hope alive
that they inherit early from their hardworking, stern parents,
who complain about their materialistic children,
and how they will never come to visit them on
Sunday afternoons when they get old.

There is a chemistry about a place,
Especially the place where you grow up.
It lingers in your soul, quietly waiting
for the right moment to come out.
It shows in how you greet strangers,
Whether you shine your shoes in the morning,
How generous you are with your smile,
especially when you don't feel loved.
It even makes a cameo appearance
in how you cut your grass.

The chemistry of Martins Ferry can be as
rancid as the dead catfish that fishermen
leave along the shores of the mighty Ohio.
Or it can be as sweet and peaceful as the
sun-filled clover fields that invite young
boys to lie on their backs and dream
about far-off places they will visit someday.
Either way, the chemistry makes us who we are.


In memory of James Wright, Martins Ferry's
poet son. Inspired by my adventuresome
childhood friend, Dan Shimp.

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