Bridges

 -The Bridges of Jacksonville, FL,  By Julie C. Fetzer.  Used with permission.

       When I went home to Jacksonville recently,  it was like looking at a map of my past. Watching out of my car window  I saw hundreds of memories float by on the Trout River. How many times had I driven or ridden over that bridge?  From sitting in a car seat to driving my first car I had watched that brackish water. That bridge took us to my grandma’s house, where there was always a smile, a sandwich (cheese and tomato, my favorite), and a friend.  I have gone over that bridge crying more times than I can count, seeking the quiet peace I knew I would find there. We would curl up on her 80’s velvet couch as both of them softened the world’s rough edges.

          I took other bridges that led to different times in my life.  I thought about this as I caught the soft wind blowing over the St. Johns, sitting in the shade of the Fuller Warren bridge.  I had navigated this bridge as a scared 16 year old, going full speed ahead to chase the life I wanted. Having no sense of direction (literally), I would drive over this bridge despite the traffic, because I knew it would always get me home. It was my go-to in case of bad weather and missed turns.  Just get to I-95 North from Jacksonville, Mom would say. You’ll get home eventually. If you end up in Georgia turn around!

   Jacksonville is a city of bridges, and you have to know how to get to your destination by at least 3 of them. The easiest way to get to my high school was the Acosta.  The one that lights up the skyline at night, and weaves close to Riverside Avenue. For me, the heart of the city is Riverside. I was born there, and somehow it got into me and never left. I go visit the Cummer Arts and Gardens, where I see pomegranate trees like my great grandfather used to grow, incipient spring about to burst into bloom . I rest in the shade of an oak older than anyone I know.  My roots go down like this tree’s as I find myself deep in the richness of its history.

         This bridge dropped us off in the arts district, where my sister and I would dress in our funky best and shop vintage clothes and cappuccinos.  Where my best friend and I bought quirky ’70’s outfits and changed immediately, because we just couldn’t wait to be those people. Those people that would rent their prom outfits from a costume shop on Margaret Street so they would be unique, and take pictures  that afternoon in the graveyard because the light was perfect.  

   Along this street my aunt and I would walk for hours, amid antiques and sepia toned treasures.  The smell of incense and sparkle of crystals has always beckoned me. “Come in and escape into another world for 20 minutes. Come read ancient quotes that carry new ideas. Take this little handful of happiness back to the world and make it a more beautiful place.”  

    New bends in the road took me to new bridges.  I watched as the Dames Point Bridge brought progress but swept away our way of life in its wake, leaving just a shadow of the town my 4th great grandfather Henry Von Balson built.  Under this bridge I ran with my cousins and fished for flounder until the sun went down. I listened to my aunt and Grandpa talk for hours in a cloud of coffee and cigarettes, while we drank tea made with sulfur water and sweetened with sugar, all caked at the bottom of an ancient orange Tupperware pitcher. We would play outside until the mosquitoes ran us in, their bites more annoying than the lure of hide and seek in the woods.

   I drove across this bridge brimming with hope and excitement, ready to start my first year of college. There were a lot of firsts that year. Most importantly, it was the first time I really felt like a part of something, my college choir. I belonged, and I was good at something. Something that would give me some of my best memories.

   Sometimes the anxiety that constantly battled with the excitement would try to stifle me.  Some days it won, some days I did. As I watched the sun rise and set on the St. Johns River, I learned that no matter how bad a day had been, there was another one tomorrow. A new beginning, another sunrise to let hope swell within me again.

      I left the city of bridges for a different world.  One where the altitude is measured in miles, and snow stays on mountain peaks long into spring. Where water flows down and then stops, soaking into a parched ground that never gets enough.  Where it rests in reservoirs, turquoise blue and protected like some secret treasure. But towards the middle of spring, I ride up into the mountains as far as I can, and watch the snow turn from a tiny stream into that rushing river. I look down into its fearless flow and once again, the river has found me. And I am the bridge.

Thanks to Julie C. Fetzer, my favorite Jax artist,  for allowing me to use her amazing artwork. 

http://www.palmartsandphoto.com