“If the misery of our poor be caused not by the laws of nature, but by our institutions, great is our sin.”
—Charles Darwin, Voyage of the Beagle

Autumn is usually a time for renewed outdoor activity as usually summer heat and humidity subside. But usually has become a problematic qualifier. It seems that nothing in nature, in politics, in religion, or in human culture can be counted on to give us reassurance that “all’s right with the world.”

My wife and I traveled recently to Frank Lloyd Wright’s “Fallingwater;” an outing which is a bit unusual for us. We obediently followed Miss Mapp’s easy, but insistent voice through Virginia, a corner of Maryland, into West Virginia (our motel location) and a few miles into Pennsylvania. Though a little rainy here and there, we enjoyed no-nonsense back roads flowing across the landscape; trees turning color, fields of brown soybeans, clots of junked farm equipment, and masses of roadside goldenrod.

Our modest motel, we soon realized, was next to a Federal Corrections Complex and knew immediately why it was located there. It was quiet, outside the radius of five-star expense around touristed “Fallingwater.” My bedtime reading was The Three Ages of Water: Prehistoric Past, Imperiled Present, and a Hope for the Future by Peter Gleick. This, I swear, was purely happenstance and not some arcane research in preparation for our visit.

As the title suggests, the book is all you want to know about the substance as a natural resource, about man’s use, control, and possession of it. Water wars have been waged for a few thousand years and are avoided today only by elaborate and contested treaties. I was reading Part Two, which deals with the exploitation, negligence, and abuse of earth’s/life’s one essential ingredient. The TV news was dominated by Hurricane Helene’s landfall and consequences. Water teaching us a lesson (or not).

Years ago, I assisted in constructing a batteau, the nineteenth century river cargo boat, in order to participate in a week-long festival on the James River. During a required safety course, I learned the physical power of water; how it can pin a body to a “strainer” tree fallen across the river, how water over a dam can have a circular back flow, how water demands respect, has a mind of its own.

Next day we weren’t sure if the drizzle that necessitated windshield wipers was the harbinger of the storm or some errant mischief. We were reminded that in 1969, Hurricane Camille took one hundred and twenty-five lives in our home county: an excess of twenty-five inches of rain fell in five hours of darkness.  We were going to visit a house built over a small stream waterfall; wondered at the hubris of designing such a thing.

As humans, we are in awe of waterfalls; certainly, in a different way than our appreciation of lakes or even oceans, though there is nothing more romantic than moonlight reflected on water: lake, pond or puddle. Is there anyone who doesn’t love a waterfall? It is interesting to note that the house is built over the waterfall such that one can’t see it from the cantilevered terraces though it can be mesmerizingly heard below.

Next day, the sun broke through and we had a pleasant drive home. I called my sister who lives in East Tennessee, just over the mountain from Asheville to hear if she and husband were safe: without municipal water, but otherwise, thankfully, okay. I didn’t dwell on the details of our trip, the contrast of recent experiences would be too much, perhaps.

Frederick Wilbur received his BA from the University of Virginia and an MA from the University of Vermont. He has authored three books on architectural and decorative woodcarving. His two poetry collections are As Pus Floats the Splinter Out and Conjugation of Perhaps. His work has appeared in many print and on-line reviews including Shenandoah, The Atlanta Review, The Comstock Review, The Dalhousie Review, Rise Up Review, and Mojave River Review. He was awarded the Stephen Meats Award by Midwest Quarterly (2017).