Gallipolis, OH

Gallipolis, Ohio, is a place that clings to the banks of the Ohio River like an old soul too tired to move but too stubborn to let go. Founded in 1790 by French settlers, it was never a city made for grand ambitions, but rather for endurance. The streets run quiet under the weight of time, with the occasional stirring of life reminding folks–all 3,313 of them–that there’s still work to be done.

I am hold up here, not by design, but fate. After attending the farm festival I found myself with only a day’s worth of a critical medication I take. Gallipolis held the closest pharmacy that would fill an out-of-state prescription. But the exercise became more of a lesson in bait & switch. 

They would happily fill the script for me; however, they had to order the medication because none was in stock. This was on a Friday, the earliest they could fill the order was Monday, assuming all went well and the shipment arrived. That meant I was staring into the teeth of at least three days without this medication; my skin began to crawl just thinking about it.

Monday came and went, then Tuesday. By early evening Tuesday I decided to excise myself from my current predicament and simply head to a bigger town, one about twice the size of Gallipolis. This effort came up a success and I’m now back on track. 

In Gallipolis, you’ll find the weather-worn courthouse standing sentinel
in the town square, surrounded by simple homes with front porches that
hold their share of secrets.

But while I was stuck in that Gallipolis, I decided to explore some–even look around for someone that might fit the model of the person I was looking for during the Hope & Generosity Tour. Here fate would intervene again… but that story is for another day…

This town, its name stitched together from “Galli” for the Frenchmen who landed here and “polis” for the city they wished to build, never quite reached the heights its founders might have imagined. But the people, those who’ve lived here generation after generation, learned to live not by the dreams of gold but by the river’s rhythm—a slow, steady beat, flowing past the Appalachian foothills, carrying stories that echo back through years of coal, timber, and stubborn survival. 

In Gallipolis, you’ll find the weather-worn courthouse standing sentinel in the town square, surrounded by simple homes with front porches that hold their share of secrets. The river, ever-present and patient, is more than just a boundary; it’s a lifeline, a way out, a way in, and sometimes the only company on long, quiet evenings. The French settlers may have left their mark on the name, but it’s the generations of American hands that carved the rest of the town out of the land. 

The railroad came and went, industries rose and fell, but Gallipolis never quit. It’s a town built not on what it has, but on what it’s lost, and the strength to keep going despite that. There are still farms nearby, and folks who work the land with the kind of care that only comes from knowing what it takes to hold on. 

Gallipolis won’t dazzle you, and it doesn’t try to. It’s a place where people live, quietly, stubbornly, and in the way they know best. For some, it’s a home, and for others, just a stop on the river. But for those who stay, it’s enough. Enough to keep going, enough to stay rooted, enough to watch the river and know that it, like the town, keeps moving forward, slow and steady.