While wandering with a friend through an Oregon summer, we happened upon a little town with a plethora of covered bridges. The Chamber of Commerce armed us with a street map clearly marked and interesting facts about each of the bridges we were to see. What a great diversion to the rather long and tedious drive, a chance to get out and stretch our legs and take some pictures.
This was a quaint little town, the streets meandering the way they often do, nicely kept homes in a humble and functional way. Along our trek, we saw some interesting sights, some bridges in desperate disrepair and others renovated for posterity. The brochure listed one rope foot bridge that I particularly wanted to see.
The wooden planks felt worn as I gingerly stepped along and felt the sway of the ropes under my weight. I gripped the railing and tried to adjust to the feel of walking on unsolid ground. The bridge spanned a lovely stream that pooled in a wide arc beneath a precipice with a lone house near the edge.
There were two men quietly leaning on the handrails near the center, companionably enjoying the view. As I made my way towards them, I overheard the man with the ball cap explaining to his friend how important a role the bridge played in his youth. Living at the edge of the bridge in that house on a cliff over the water made him the envy of the neighborhood. The bridge was his.
Neighborhood kids had to traverse this bridge on their way to school and town. Rapid fire stories began to emerge and I watched as vivid recollections took hold of his face. He and his friends would strategically position themselves along the bridge and wait for girls to get about halfway across before swinging the bridge hard enough to enjoy their terrified screams. He would run pell mell from the back of the property right off the edge and into the deep pool and what it felt like to drop. He remembered the bridge during storms, trusting his old friend would stand but knowing that even ropes can weaken and fray.
His features opened into a mischevious grin as he reached out and gripped the ropes. With well practiced movements he pushed and tugged, this way and that, and the old bridge groaned and came alive. I snatched a support and held on, being carried back in time, watching his memory come alive. For just a few moments, as the bridge rippled and swayed, I was a present part of his past.
NMcC
No comments:
Post a Comment