Bridge Musings
Sarah K. has been writing of her adventures in packing and moving to Frank J.‘s neck of the woods. It’s like a blast from our own past. Apparently she doesn’t like bridges or tunnels. I don’t recall the crossing at Baton Rouge having been that bad, but I’ve gotten past most of my youthful nervousness about bridges. Plus that was circa 1988, so who knows how much longer or scarier the crossing may have become since then.
When I was a kid, we stayed in a relative’s cottage on the mainland side of the Cape Cod Canal in Bourne for a chunk of a summer. We went to the July 4 fireworks at the Bourne high school, which was on the other side of the canal. On the way back, there was a massive traffic jam (well, probably not that massive, being a matter of perception) going over the Bourne bridge. Siting there stopped at the top of the bridge, the way it vibrated the car convinced me the bridge was going down and we were all about to die. I have seldom been more terrified.
I also didn’t like the French King Bridge, on route 2 in western Massachusetts, over the Connecticut River. The sad thing is, when I was a kid it was because it seemed so long, high and old. When I lived in the Greenfield area, it was because it looked so decrepit I was sure it was going to crumble apart under me. I wonder if it’s been renovated yet. At the same time, the other river bridges in the area didn’t bother me at all.
The best sign that my old fear of bridges has almost completely abated is the complete nonchalance with which I drove over the new bridge from New Brunswick to Prince Edward Island, around where the Borden ferry used to run. I was too busy marveling at the engineering, and wishing my Sentra was higher so I could have a better view.
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