Monthly Archives: July 2016

Bridges

31 Sunday Jul 2016

Posted by in Bridges, Mindfulness, Travel

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I was on vacation last week. I took three short trips, one to fish for a few days, one to tour the Abraham Lincoln sites in Springfield, Illinois, and one to visit a relative who is recovering from a recent car crash. Each trip was about a two-hour drive away, so I covered some ground, mostly on highways—I-44, I-55, I-70. Driving along highways is one thing. Most of us do that all the time. Even going to the grocery store or our gym we’re likely to put in a few miles on a highway.

But on each of these trips I crossed at least one bridge. I live in St. Louis, Missouri, so inevitably I am often crossing bridges over the Mississippi River. When you live beside one of the world’s great rivers all your life you tend to lose a sense of its renown, its lore. To me it’s just the big river I see all the time. I also crossed over the Missouri—another major stream—and the Meramec, a local river, mostly known for its disastrous flooding every few years.

I can drive highways all the time without anything more than a sense of time and miles passing. But whenever I cross a bridge I get a rush of feeling, a sudden sense that I am going somewhere. I’m not sure why it is, except perhaps that I am not well-traveled for my age and experience. Most people I know have been many more places: more cities, more states, more countries. My travels have been slight in comparison, and each place I go fills me with a mix of dread and anticipation.

I first felt this way many years ago when I crossed a bridge over some minor river in Tennessee. I was probably headed to a family funeral, I really don’t remember; but I do remember crossing this bridge. At the time I was very smitten with Big Band music, and a tape was playing (yes, a tape) of Benny Goodman or Artie Shaw, some such quintessentially American musician, and the rush of feeling in that moment, having crossed from Missouri to Tennessee, one state to another, took the form of how huge is America, all these states, all these regions, and the wonderful music flowed into the moment and filled the space with sound.

But the feeling is not usually that well defined. It’s usually just a sense of crossing from one region to another. The people on this side of the river live one way, the people on that side are different. I will see new things on the other side. I will learn about those things and one day I will return, cross this bridge going the other way and tell my native tribe what I have seen.

Or something like that. I really don’t know how to describe the feeling. I mentioned it once to a traveling companion and she offered little response, just an ‘I see,’ or a ‘hmm.’ I considered trying further explanation, but I turned back inward instead, knowing this was likely not a feeling that could be shared. And yet here I am sharing it on a larger scale. Go figure.

A bridge is an easy symbol, and almost always of good things. A bridge into the future. Building a bridge between people. Bridging the gap. But the good things don’t always come without some danger. One of my favorite children’s stories is The Three Billy Goats Gruff, about the perils of crossing a bridge when there are monsters lurking beneath. But oh, that grass over there is so green, so lush, that it is worth the risk. Thank goodness we have Big Billy Goat Gruff to defeat the troll and lead the way.

I hope that my future holds many bridges to cross, both literally and figuratively. And I guess the point I am trying to make is that for me, all bridges are literal and figurative at the same time, and to tell the truth, I kind of like it that way.

The Middle of Summer?

17 Sunday Jul 2016

Posted by in Seasons, Summer

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There were two stories on the radio this morning about summer: one dealt with the problems families with children face when they don’t have school to send their kids to during the day, while the other was about our summer music playlist. This latter story led off with the announcer noting that we were halfway through summer. Which of course sent me into all kinds of considerations.

There are several different summers. One is the traditional season that begins at the solstice around June 21 or 22, and runs until the autumnal equinox around September 21 or 22nd. If you’re counting what feels like summer, this is the one that counts. In the Great American Midwest, and plenty of other places, the heat and humidity often last at least that long.

Meteorologists have long used a different reckoning, counting seasons from the first day of the first month in which the seasonal pattern prevails. Thus winter is from December 1 through January 31. Summer is June 1 through August 31. But you see the problem with this, which I noted above. Summery weather can begin sooner and run longer. Meteorologists need well-defined units in which to record statistics about the seasons they study, so this system makes sense. If a summery weather pattern persists too long into what they normally deem autumn, that’s something to be noted. (Except, of course, in the United States, where we have politicians to keep an eye on weather patterns, and we don’t need to listen to meteorologists and other ‘scientists.’)

Then again there’s that summer vacation. When a school-aged kid says ‘summer is almost over,’ it means that summer vacation is coming to an end, no matter the weather. Summer is defined by the local school district and by state laws that say how many days of school students will have in a given year. Increasingly summer ends sooner and sooner. It used to be all schools began the day after Labor Day, the first Monday in September. Now school districts are worried that students won’t have enough weeks of instruction before they take their federally-mandated achievement tests, so in some places they start as early as mid-August. But of course federally-mandated achievement tests are an important part of every child’s education, so we have to adjust our lives to accommodate them.

All of these various ‘summers’ mean something to different people. Summer, like all seasons, is a time, but it is also a feeling, and I think we all know summer when we feel it. Like winter, it is a feeling we both cherish and grow weary of. No matter the date, when it has been too hot and too humid for too long, we all pine for summer to be over.

This is, of course, why autumn is the most popular season by far.

Rain is a Holiday

12 Tuesday Jul 2016

Posted by in 4th of July, Nature, Rain, Seasons

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Rain was predicted this past 4th of July. The midsummer celebrations always include barbecues, parades, and municipal fairs—all outdoor activities. There are simply no traditional indoor Independence Day activities. There was a good chance that parades would be rained out, that they wouldn’t be able to have the fireworks in Memorial Field. It put a damper on everyone’s celebrations, and there were lamentations far and wide about the unfairness of it all. After all, July is so typically hot and dry, and the weather predictions for the following week were for skyrocketing temperatures and dry, dry, dry. Why should it rain on the 4th?

I rarely complain about a rainy day, even on a holiday. Rain is special no matter when it comes. I mean, water out of the sky? How does that happen? One of the most ancient of Sumerian myths has the two sons of the sky god arguing: one is the deified Summer and one is the deified Winter, and they dispute about who is more important for the growth of crops. Their father steps in to settle the argument: Winter is more important, because without his rains there would be no crops.

But more than that, a rainy day always feels special. A long time ago I was married to a woman named Carolyn. She used to love when it rained, and we would take long walks beneath a large umbrella. This is the right attitude; there is something intimate and romantic about sharing that little shelter, the patter of raindrops on it, the splash of water at your feet, that encourages conversation and closeness.

We once attended Fair St. Louis, the biggest local fair, and one of the best 4th of July parties in the country, on a rainy day. I thought cancelling was the best idea, but she would have none of that. We went to the fair and it was very nice. The temperatures were cooler than normal for July, and the weather kept the crowds small. It was easy to get a beer and a hot dog, to get up close to hear featured musicians, and to find a good seat for the fireworks, even though we got rained on a few times. Our determination was rewarded when the rain held off in the evening and the fireworks went on as usual, everyone oohing and aahing from their soggy blankets on the ground.

Early in the predawn morning I am awakened by the sound of rain. It was a warm night and the window is open and I can hear the rain begin to drop on leaves and on the ground. I know it is falling on the sill and soon I will have to rouse myself and close the window. But I linger against that duty, feeling calm and assured within the sound of the rain. This will be a good morning, cooler and greener, and I hope the rain is still falling when I get out in it.

So many blues songs and popular tunes evoke rainy days as a symbol of sadness, loneliness, and despair. I know, it’s an easy contrast with a sunny day, which is a symbol for happiness and things going well in life. Still, I don’t get it. Everyone complains about rain on a holiday, but to me, rain is always a holiday, a little break within itself, a little remembrance of the cycles of nature and how they can interrupt the artificial lives we’ve assigned ourselves.