Mississippi Queen with Carli

It all began calmly enough. I unwrapped Carli’s birthday present, easily recognizable as the Sierra Club Engagement Book, which she has given me for years. Inside, untidily, were papers. The first was a roundtrip ticket to New Orleans and the second, a brochure of the Mississippi Queen, in which a note from Carli asked me to join her March 12th through 19th on a cruise to celebrate our “Ninetieth Birthday”—my sixtieth and her thirtieth.

The weeks between January 4th and March 12th were so bedazzling with anticipation that they culminated in a depression because soon the trip would be past. (Author’s Note: Naturally, once the trip was past, there was a glowing memory, relivable at will, and the happy knowledge that not one moment of the cruise was less than perfect.)

Telephone companies in California and Belize could have declared extra dividends as the time approached.

 

Our final call established that we would meet on the pier at 6:00 pm Friday since Carli had all the documents and I would not be allowed aboard without her.

Allowing Carli over an hour to travel from plane to boat, I set off by taxi for the long-awaited reunion. Fifty yards from destination, we were blocked by a train. Twenty-five agonizing minutes later I begged the driver to find a way around it. His bypass again was blocked, but after a few moments the train moved on and we were able to proceed by approved broken-field driving back down a series of wharves to the Julia Street Pier where, through the shadowy clutter of a warehouse, the wedding-cake shape of the Mississippi Queen appeared aglow in the floodlights.

My luggage was deposited at the foot of the stage (riverboat term for the gangplank that is swung up at the bow of the boat underway or lowered to join boat to shore). I looked eagerly around for a beaming blonde. Next thing I knew a tall stranger in ruffled shirt was escorting me aboard as I protested that I had no documents.

In the lounge an elaborately costumed young brunette—Some 250 pounds of curves topped by a beautiful face—took me in hand to see if we could locate Carli. The Purser checked her list, established that Carli had not checked in, asked if I were Katharine Scott, arranged for my luggage to be taken to our stateroom, and sent me on my way in a blaze of friendliness.

By the time I returned from a quick hanging of hangers from my val-pac, Carli was emerging from a limousine in the doorway of the warehouse, looking frantically for a pathetic mother perched by her suitcases in the gloom.

When we returned to the cabin together we found a bottle of wine chilling in a cooler. It was a bon voyage gift from Carli’s travel agent (who has reason to feel she has caught a Live One, what with a trip to Tahiti and a Mississippi River cruise in less than a year).

 

The stateroom was surprisingly roomy. Twin beds separated by a four-drawer chest. Across the room, a small armchair next to a narrow four-drawer chest. Hanging locker approximately a yard long across from the small but gracious bathroom. Shower across the back corner of the cubicle was small but adequate. Large medicine cabinet. Basin set into a wall-length counter. Commode firmly planted dead center of the floor leaving just enough room to maneuverer around it. The special mechanism that permitted flushing with only four pints of water appeared to work on a vacuum principle that put one in utter terror of being sucked down through the pipe by its violent but momentary whooshing.

The prize of our stateroom was its private veranda with two chairs and a table where we could sit at leisure and watch the river as we caught up on conversation.

 

Sailing night there was a spectacular buffet supper served early enough to allow passengers to be on deck for the calliope serenade that traditionally accompanies departure from each port. We listened to the exuberant and brassy music as miles of wharves and warehouses slipped past on one side of the boat and tugs pushing their burdens of barges worked up and downstream on the other.

Later there was superb Dixieland music in the Grand Saloon and an entertaining introduction to the staff and life of the Mississippi Queen by the Cruise Director (Karen, not Julie). That night, as every night, the band continued playing till midnight as the dance floor was taken over by some of the loveliest dancers I have seen in years, most of them white of hair and abundant of bulk, but light on their feet, untiring, compatibly skilled.

 

The Mississippi Queen is a new steel ship, built on traditional lines, with twin reciprocating steam engines powering a huge paddlewheel. She is a dream to manage, despite her bulk and boxiness, because of four separately operating rudders and bow thrusters. In Vicksburg as her nose was obviously stuck in the mud at the riverbank, the captain quieted passengers who appeared to be preparing to panic by calling down from his picturesque position just above them on the wing-bridge, “I never worry about getting her off as long as I have that big paddlewheel going. She’ll come off.” A few moments later he called down, “Look there on the port. Isn’t that bow thruster the prettiest thing you ever have seen washing her out of the mud!” The prettiest thing we ever had seen proved to be a rectangle of churning muddy water off the port bow but, as our handsome young Master said, she was backing out smoothly, as the jets of steam began erupting from the calliope pipes at the stern, blasting out the departure music.

The boat (always referred to as a boat, not a ship) is carpeted throughout, with brass-railed double staircases ascending two flights from our Cabin Deck to the Observation Deck where Dining Saloon and Grand Saloon are located. The decor is a graciously modernized traditional.

 

The first morning we woke around seven, realized that we were not moving, raised the shades on our windows to look at the river, and discovered that we could not even see the rail on our veranda. Later we learned that the Coast Guard had halted all shipping in that area because of a pea-souper. The fog broke gradually and Carli and I sat on the veranda drinking coffee as the boat shoved off from shore and proceeded upriver.

We sailed all the first day. Carli and I explored, got lost, sat in on some of the activities, enjoyed our veranda.

 

Captain Chengery (Czech: Chin-GEAR-ee) gave a fascinating talk on navigation. He is an exceptionally handsome, mustached man of 33, quite properly more proud of his recently acquired Mississippi River Pilot’s License than of his river Master’s papers. His talk was lucid, entertaining, informative.

Of all we learned, what gave us the most continuing pleasure was finding out that boats zig-zag up and down the river from side to side, instead of staying to the right. Running upriver, boats look for the slack water under points, crossing from one side to the other. Downriver, boats want the extra speed of the fastest current and ride the bends. To avoid accidents, boats signal to say which side they will be passing on—port to port, one whistle; starboard to starboard, two. Alex says that now that most river traffic uses radio, they will say to each other, for example, “We’ll pass on the two-whistle side.” It was fun understanding the whistles and knowing which side of the boat to go to to see the passing vessel.

All of the tugs now push rather than tow barges. (None-the-less, the raft of barges being pushed is called a tow.) We passed one of the maximum tows—35 barges, five across and seven long. There was constant traffic but very little to see on the river banks. To our surprise, the river side of the levees is an undergrowth of bushes and slim trees with only occasionally open fields or lawns and homes visible.

 

One of the more colorful events of the first day came mid-morning when the Mississippi Queen nudged into a bank at the foot of a long lawn leading up to a magnificent antebellum plantation house. A costumed young lady stood on the veranda as a brass-buttoned majordomo hurried to the boat with several suitcases. The luggage of two of our table companions had been lost by the airline, rushed to the boat just after she sailed, and had been driven some eighty miles up along the river to catch up with them.

 

Since Carli and I skipped breakfast in favor of coffee (or herb tea for heaven’s sake) and sometimes continental breakfast on our veranda, we first joined our table at luncheon on the Saturday.

We were at a table for six—Carli’s choice, reasoned thus: we would be together constantly so did not need mealtime privacy at a table for two; a table for four was chancy since we might loathe our companions on sight; a table for eight might break up into cliques; a table for six seemed ideal.

One couple was a retired oil man and his striking, friendly wife. Their last foreign post was Iran, but Mr. Miller resigned after four years there rather than risk the rising revolution. They left six months before the hostages were taken, and a friend who had scoffed at them was murdered by mobs.

The others were two peripatetic widows of about my age who have traveled all over the world together. One talked and one smiled. They were good company if one made allowances for endless comparisons of everything with earlier trips.

 

We were charmed by the staff members whom we got to know. Our Cabin Stewardess Becki was a bright-faced, exuberant, plump young girl, part way through college and now engaged to one of the engineering officers.

Carli had brought along to show me a delightful album her friend Cathy had made of their plane trip to a resort in Baja California—part photographs, part typed commentary. After I had read it, it stayed out on the bureau. As we were going along the corridor one morning, Becki caught us and exclaimed, “Carli, I simply loved your album about your Baja trip!” Carli made pleasant sounds as we both choked back guffaws until reaching the privacy of our stateroom.

“If I had looked into someone’s private things,” Carli finally gasped, “I certainly would have been too embarrassed to admit it.” Becki, on the other hand, was cheerfully certain that we would be pleased at her sharing the trip.

Every evening the beds were turned down and a foil-wrapped chocolate mint left on the pillow. On St. Patrick’s Day, however, Becki spent her own money to buy small green-decorated paper plates and an assortment of green-wrapped mints to leave for her cabin guests.

Our waiter was a quick, amenable young man named Joel. The first time I asked for my prime ribs rare-rare-rare, he asked if I would permit the chef to warm the meat in the middle. When I replied, “Just barely,” he went off to return with a magnificent slice of meat cooked exactly to my taste. Other evenings he presented steaks and roast beef precisely as I wanted them.

One morning Carli and I went to breakfast, just to see what it was like. I asked Joel what the Chef’s Choice Omelet was that day. When he replied, “Spinach,” I was so manifestly horrified that Carli and our table-mates burst into laughter. Kate Was Not Amused at the idea of anyone’s putting vegetables in her eggs, however, and asked if the Chef possibly could come up with some cheese instead. Soon Carli was relishing her spinach omelet and I was luxuriating in a beautiful cheese one, accompanied by what they consider an order of bacon, eight slices. I mellowed somewhat about the matter when Carli pointed out that the green omelet probably was in celebration of St. Patrick’s Day.

Our busboy, Trong Nguyen, was unobtrusively omnipresent, whisking away used items the instant they were finished. Late in the trip Mr. Miller began some friendly repartee with him, and Trong succeeded in being incredibly quick with replies that were delightful without ever overstepping the bounds of propriety.

 

The boat had a full schedule of activities—shore trips at four stops, first-run movies shown three times each day, game shows, bingo, bridge, exercise class, kite-flying competition at the calliope, and a lot more. I should think anyone could find something to do any time of the day or evening. But there was no one hassling you to join in activities, thank goodness. In the evening the Dixieland band played in the Grand Saloon with a special show about 45 minutes long after dinner, continuing with music for dancing till midnight.

The Paddlewheel Bar, glass-enclosed, two decks tall, stretched the entire width of the stern, overlooking the paddlewheel. A balcony behind the Dining Saloon let guests look down on the dance floor and entertainment. Here, Carli and I found, was the top entertainment on the boat.

Three young musicians, probably in their early thirties, provided the best in ragtime, jazz, blues—anything—with a little low-key historical introduction to the classics of those genres. They all dressed in turn-of-the-century clothes. The men had waxed mustaches, the pianist’s describing full circles at each tip.

The pianist, Steve, was a superb and versatile musician; banjoist Fred did things with that instrument that I did not know it was capable of; singer Sherri (the large young woman who had been so kind on my arrival), always draped with a brilliantly colored boa, was billed as the “Red Hot Mama” and could belt out a song in the style of, and approaching the talent of, some of the classic singers of blues and ballads.

How do I know? Carli and I ended up living in the Paddlewheel Bar. We could not get enough of that music. It took us a couple of days to realize that they were so good and what their show schedule was. After that, we turned up at their 5:15 pre-dinner show for the First Seating, their 7:15 show for our seating, and the 11:15 show after the Dixieland show was over in the Grand Saloon. I found myself taking a nap every afternoon so that Carli and I could close up the Paddlewheel each night.

The atmosphere there and throughout the boat was pleasant, with quick, attentive bar service, but no pushing of drinks. You could sit in the Paddlewheel Bar for hours without a drink or with just a glass of soda. The staff gave you the feeling that you were welcome guests and that the bar was simply available if you wanted it.

We visited with the musicians during intermissions and got quite friendly with Fred Dodd, the banjoist. His wife Karen was the Cruise Director. Both Carli and I bought his record. Playing it here at home has done more than anything to bring back the fun we had.

 

Carli and I went on all four of the tours offered. The first was in St. Francisville, with the most elaborate of the antebellum homes and gardens we visited. In Vicksburg we drove through the battlefield as a dear little ancient gave us a brisk, vivid description of the siege and surrender.

When we returned to the boat after the Vicksburg tour, Carli set off back up the road, where she picked a large bouquet of yellow wild flowers. Tastefully displayed in a small plastic glass, they still were fresh days later when we departed.

Natchez was my favorite of the cities we visited since so much of it dates back to the late Seventeen Hundreds, the Civil War’s having bypassed it. Unfortunately we were there during their annual pilgrimage so that all the houses we visited were jammed with people. We did not have the leisure to observe and enjoy that we had had in the earlier tours.

Baton Rouge was our last stop, somewhat different, a modern business city. Huey P. Long’s contributions much in evidence. At the University of Louisiana their mascot, Tommy, a Bengal tiger, was prowling regally in his newly enlarged cage almost alongside the bus as we stopped for a traffic light.

One of Carli’s and my favorite sites was the Rural Life museum, several acres holding antebellum overseer’s houses, slave cabins, school, infirmary, sugar mill, grist mill, etc. After seeing the gracious plantation and town houses of the wealthy it was fascinating to see something of more modest ways of living.

In Baton Rouge we returned from our tour to find the Delta Queen (owned by the same company) berthed alongside the Mississippi Queen. She originally ran between Sacramento and San Francisco but some years ago was taken under her own power down through the Panama Canal and back to New Orleans. Alex says that, since she is a wooden boat, each year a special Act of Congress is passed to permit her to continue to carry passengers. He adds that she has the best fire-fighting equipment of any boat anywhere.

After dinner that night Carli and I toured the Delta Queen. The dark paneling and gleaming brass give her a Turn-of-the-Century elegance. We even were able to go into the engine room, gleaming with white-painted engines, each with pristine oil cans sitting on clean paper towel every few feet along the base. Gauges are in heavy brass cases. It was a showplace.

 

Much of our time was spent on the Promenade Deck. Eight laps equals a mile. After the first few laps strangers in deck chairs begin calling out encouragement as you pass. Carli and I did the mile or more together a few times without missing a syllable of conversation. She walked afternoons while I was napping, and visited with the young officers and staff. There was only one hazard, a wizened little old lady whose age we all put at over eighty, who jogged lap after lap, head down, taking it for granted that all would clear a path for her.

 

The cruise was perfect. Plenty of time for Carli and me to catch up on our talking; perfect weather; room and leisure to walk; enough sightseeing, all of it interesting though I felt housed-out at the end and was delighted with the change of pace in Baton Rouge. Shipboard activities were well-designed; the food was excellent and far more abundant than we needed. We skipped breakfasts and midnight buffets, though I think we should at least have looked at them since the ice sculptures were striking, we were told. The atmosphere throughout was modeled on the friendliness of the old riverboats.

 

Leaving was hard. We went separately because I had an errand before going to the airport. After checking in, I looked for Carli and finally caught her flying through the lobby with barely time to make her flight. Their bus had been held up by a train as they left the pier.