Bridges are pretty special places as far as I am concerned. And I have a feeling if we all look into our recent or distant memories we’d more than likely have a tale to tell that in some way started and/or ended on or near a bridge. Think about it.

Growing up in Pennsylvania, I have many happy memories of old wooden, covered bridges. A memory of thick, rough-hewed planks, always well-worn, never new, never painted or shiny, just rough and thick with wide spaces between each plank … where you could watch the water glide beneath your feet, where, if you had lots of practice and good aim, you could spit from a standing position through the spaces and into the water below without wetting either plank. This, although not one of the better social graces my parents tried to instill in me, was in that time, a special athletic skill looked upon by my peers as a damn fine thing to be able to do … especially for a girl.

Bridges have other memories for me, too. We played a game when traveling in our family’s old panel truck. Coming to a bridge someone in the auto would holler, “Bridge.” My brother, Wayne and I would pull our feet and legs up off the car floor and hold them there until we exited the bridge on the other side. Sometimes Dad would join in lifting both feet up and we’d coast over the bridge so no one would get “wet feet.” Mom, on the other hand, rolled her eyes and made that sound through her teeth that moms have a habit of doing.

I remember jumping from bridges into the shallow water below. Foolish now, but, brave back then. And sitting, bare feet dangling over the side of a wooden bridge, holding a fishing pole, dreaming of other places and other times, interrupted occasionally when a car would come driving along my wooden bridge, making the entire structure rumble with rolling vibrations. The bridge would shake and rattle and growl, moving up and down, but it never came apart. At least, I didn’t ever know if it did.

To me and many of my friends, Pennsylvania bridges were always old, always worn, but always there. When we were sixteen, he and I found a four-leaf clover under a bridge. It was not my first four-leaf clover, but he was my first special boyfriend.

We washed cars under bridges and kept “bootleg shine” and other refreshments cool in the slow moving water. We decorated city bridges with ribbons and flags so they would look festive as the holiday parades passed by. We dreamed, holding hands looking over the bridge rails, sometimes tossing pennies and wishes into the water below.

I’ve traveled over bridges in many parts of this country, by car, train, bus, bike and skates and on horseback, hay wagons and wedding carriage. I’ve looked down on bridges from planes and even a helicopter once. At times, I have floated under bridges on rafts, boats of various sizes and styles, and quite often I simply floated on my back in the murky streams watching clouds and trees and birds and bridges all pass by into a special place within my memory.

And so it was when I arrived in Ft. Myers, Florida, the first thing I really saw and really wanted to see again was the Old Edison Bridge. It was new to me. It was different. It was made of concrete. And this bridge spanned the Caloosahatchee River. Now to my way of thinking, any bridge that can extend over a river with a name like Caloosahatchee, has got to be special. And it is. But, it has one flaw.

When one drives on this old Edison Bridge, one cannot, as one surely expects, view the water beneath or beyond. Because of the side structure of this Edison Bridge, the view is non-existent! Who could have made such a great mistake when designing this bridge?

Part two of this column will be published next week in the December 12, 2018 edition.