Bridging the Past and Present
April 15, 2007
I remember this railroad bridge from when I was a kid. Train tracks run through the Midwestern town where I grew up and the trains chugged their way through on a daily basis.
We lived a few miles out, on the south side of town, far enough away from the train tracks that we didn’t hear the trains or their whistles from our neighborhood. Though we were downtown often enough that it wasn’t unusual to see a train, it was a rare event for me to see one cross the railroad bridge. I remember being especially thrilled on the occasions when was in just the right place at the right time to witness these crossings. Normally, this meant I was in the back seat of a car crossing one of the other bridges. I remember thinking it must be dangerous for something as big and long as a train to be crossing a bridge, and always held my breath, craning my neck to try to see if the bright red caboose (something I always got a kick out of seeing, anyway) made it to the safety of the other side.
This bridge has been redone in recent years as a footbridge. I love to look out over the flowing river below as I cross without the rush of cars interrupting those peaceful moments.
Today, I live near a world famous bridge, the Golden Gate. I’ve only crossed it once on foot. It was anything but peaceful. In fact, it was so cold and windy and there were so many people and so much traffic I have no desire to do it again. The bridges of Eau Claire and Wisconsin speak to me, though. They call me in my sleep, as if they hold the code or key to the mysteries within me.
When I visited my family last summer and drove across the bridge over the St. Croix River that connects Minnesota and Wisconsin I was moved to tears. I’m home, my body told me, as I felt what this crossing meant from deep within me. Energy collected in my heart, moved up to form a lump in my throat that eventually traveled all the way to my eyes and flowed down my cheeks in joyful recognition and celebration of my arrival, having made it full circle back, once again, to the place I was born.
Such is the gift of bridges. They allow us to get from where we are to where we’d like to go; from here to the other side and back again, if we choose.
January 14, 2008 at 3:31 am
Thanks for your story. I too love bridges, a mystery of sorts in our hearts that gaps the voids of nature to bring us to the time of wonder. I am 53 of age, trains were still apart of us, even in my youth. Now they are a minority of business, only in need of purpose and cost do they survive. I miss the trains, the sounds, the events they did with their business. I am saddened by the surviving bridges that stand alone and unused; there is no need to cross them any longer. I know they cannot remain alone too long; they will fall down which is a source of danger. So what do we do with the surviving one’s still standing? Remember them in our hearts, a source of wonder, a source of joy. Remember them when you don’t see them anymore. May bridges bring one to crossings over into happiness.
February 23, 2008 at 5:01 pm
Thank you for your wonderful reply, Jeff. You and I are almost the same age.
Reading your words reminded me of hearing a train whistle in the distance at night and how lonely and beautifully haunting it sounded to my young ears. My mind would race wondering where it was now and where it might be going. The possibilities it sparked in my imagination were endless.
I’ve always thought of myself as progressive and have burned many a figurative bridge behind me without a backward glance. Somehow, at this stage in my life, though, I am seeing the beauty in what has been and is so quickly receding into oblivion with the rate of change in the world today.
Yes, we do remember them in our hearts as part of the rich landscape of our lives.