Bridges of Connection

A little Memoir of the younger days.

 

 

 

Visiting my Grandma’s house wasn’t always the highlight of my weekend, but it was something I felt obligated to do.  One weekend, however, I discovered that the ground isn’t always as solid as it appears and that even broken bridges carry a sense of connection.

          My grandmother had arranged a small family reunion to which many of my relatives had arrived.  However, my cousin Byron was the only one close to my own age, and I was about twelve at the time.  As a wiry young teen, Byron craved the same sense of adventure that I did.  Yet, there was absolutely nothing to do.  I remember staring at the wall, twiddling my thumbs and sighing a lot.

          After a while, I glanced over at my cousin and made a face.  I pointed to the door and then at the adults huddled over an old photo album.  Motioning subtly, I traced a crooked line in the air and used both my hands to enact two people walking over it.  Byron raised an eyebrow as a smile stretched across his face.  We had the same crazy idea.

          Simultaneously, we rose, found Brandi, and slipped quietly out the door.  Then, we paraded around the neighborhood until we entered the Indian Village that overlapped Nana’s backyard.  I could taste the freedom as we hiked up our pants and raced one another to the big creek hidden behind Indian mounds and clumps of strange bamboo-like grasses. 

The creek was our haven of simple childish delight.  Its water stretched for miles, and the three of us wandered along the shore, kicking up sand, old cans, and other debris.  Byron then turned to me with a look of adventure.  “So how’re we gonna get across?” he asked.  Without answering I kept walking until my foot snagged a twig protruding from the loose ground.  Kneeling, I pushed away the sand to reveal a small piece of flat driftwood.  Carefully gathering it in my arms, I carried it back to Byron and held it at eye level.

“Can you find more of this?” I challenged boldly.  “This will make the PERFECT bridge if we can gather enough to stretch across these shallower sandbars.”  I stopped for a minute and listened to nature’s music as it whispered its little plots to me.  After a moment I added, “And get Brandi to help too!”  Together, we scanned the creek bed for flat driftwood until we’d formed a small pile.  I glanced at the pile and then let my gaze wander the width of the creek.  “Think we have enough to make it?”

Byron only shrugged.  “Who knows?  But there’s only one way to find out!”  I laughed as we rushed to lay the wood along the unstable sandbars for our bridge to new adventures.

After a few minutes, we’d gotten about halfway across and were quite pleased with our progress so far.  After all, how many kids had crossed the creek before?  Well, how many had crossed with our style, anyhow?  I held onto Byron for balance as we tiptoed across the half built bridge carrying the last remaining logs.  Suddenly, Brandi shrieked, and I whipped around to see what exactly the problem was.  I could only stand and laugh as I dumped the last few logs into place.  Attempting to grab wood along the creek bed, Brandi had lost her balance.  She was gazing at me with a look of frustration while trying to free her feet from the gooey sand enveloping them.  Byron, on the other hand, had a little more sense than I did.  He rushed back to her, grabbed her by the shoulders, and pulled her out of the sand in one swift movement.  The only problem was that her sneakers didn’t come with her.  They were slowly sinking as they filled with water.  I clambered carefully over to retrieve the shoes, but as my own feet were sucked in, I lost my balance and fell head first into the cold water.  Byron, trying to follow helpfully, only mirrored my own actions.

Well, eventually we did recollect Brandi’s sneakers, and we did manage to get back onto dry land.  After all of our work, though, we never did reach the other side, but it didn’t matter anymore.  We’d still had a fun time, even if Byron and I were dripping from our heads to our toes.  Sandbars are funny things.  They look like solid ground, but all they really are are loose clumps of sand packed over layers of water.  Once the balance is shifted, a person will sink into it like quicksand, which is exactly what the three of us had managed to do.

I don’t really remember what happened to us after we showed back up at my Grandma’s house in our soaked attire, but I do know that our limited time together was still well spent, even if we accomplished absolutely nothing.  Sometimes, it just doesn’t really matter what you’re doing.  It’s the people you’re with that count and who help forge the memories that can last a lifetime.  That little driftwood bridge was our little bridge that helped intertwine lives that were often miles apart.

Reviews

[Salvatore Buttaci]

Congratulations on winning the write-a-story contest!

Sal

[Bear]

Oh this is TRULY a heart warming tale, of a fine childhood adventure!! Thank you for bringing back memories of my own! Fantastic write!! Thanks for sharing!!
Sallie Bear

[Bonnie]

I enjoyed this story. Memories of childhood can be precious.

You have good pacing, and describe the activities well. The dialog fits nicely into the flow.

I like the positive ending. You show a sense of wisdom when reflecting on a simple adventure.