Eng+408

Joseph Schimmel ENG 408 9/12/11   __Memoir__ The bridge filled the gap between innocent youth and misplaced adolescence. We were warned to stay clear. Our parents knew what went on under the bridge and so did we. However, like most teens, we were defiant. The stern instructions from our parents only heightened our curiosity and intensified our risk. At the time, the bridge was a place we could disappear. It shielded us from the rest of the world – from our parents, our teachers, our worries, our problems. It was a place where we could experiment, tamper, break rules, and become teenagers. However, looking back the bridge was much more than that. Our bridge was located beneath a busy Ford Rd. in the heart of Canton, Michigan. Just east of the bridge lie a stream that snaked it’s way through a wooded environ filled with familiar bike trails, rocky terrain, and hidden hideouts. West of the bridge the stream continued into a grassy field that we tromped through daily. The tunnel was wide but not particularly long. It was made of some sort of ridged steel that echoed our footsteps and our stories. We lined the interior with crates stolen from a nearby Meijers and planks of wood we found near a lumberyard. We created seats to rest upon and set the wood up in blocks for our feet to roost without getting wet from the passing stream. It was inviting and at times, a bit haunting. We never ventured inside at night – we were way too scared. // Fall // Mud was always a problem. You would think that 12 and 13 year old boys wouldn’t mind a little mud. Normally, we didn’t…getting dirty was always fun. But tracking mud under the bridge always found its way onto our pants, shirts, and backpacks – you name it. Coming home from school with mud caked to our jeans would require some explaining. We would all file in from outside and scrap the soles of our shoes against the aluminum edge at the entrance. Someone would always do a piss-poor job and we’d certainly let him know. Marc always brought the cigarettes. His older brother Jason smoked and because Marc once threatened to rat him out, he never complained when 5 or 6 smokes would go missing. Todd would bring the portable radio, Eric brought the Southern Comfort, and Nick “Popcan” Dubois brought the reading material – although the magazines he would supply didn’t require much reading. School had just started and the season was changing – and so were we. The crisp autumn air swept through the tunnel from time to time carrying with it a welcomed chill. The summer stream that would pass beneath our feet now transported the fallen leaves. Our conversations were filled with excitement and youth. We weren’t particularly excited to be back in school, but we were excited to be back beneath our bridge. We talked about Lions football and Red Wings hockey: We talked about girls we couldn’t wait to see again and our summer romances: We talked about the Guns N’ Roses concert, the new Nirvana CD, the Pearl Jam album, the Red Hot Chili Peppers new hit and our theme song, “Under the Bridge”. We were immersed in our own culture and more in-tuned with our generation than ever before. The bridge heard it all. Winter Perhaps my favorite time spent under the bridge came in the winter months. The walk home was expected to take a bit longer so we moved even faster and spent just a little more time in the forbidden tunnel. The steam that once moved gracefully through now rested peacefully under a blanket of snow. The winds that swept through now made us glance in the other direction and admire our breath as it may meet the exhaled smoke from someone in our gang. The water would run off the street above and form icicles at the entrance. I was always annoyed when someone would knock them off just to watch them shatter. The branches at the opposite end hung a little lower as the ice and snow often weighed them down. January of 1992 marked for me one of the most memorable and moving conversations I’ve ever had. “Popcan” and I sat alone in the tunnel sharing a cigarette we had stashed under a rock near the pond at the east entrance. His mother, a woman he barely knew, had committed suicide a few months earlier (November 12th) down in North Carolina where she lived. “It’s strange to think that I’ll never see her again”, he began. “I don’t see her very much, just in July at Chris and Dan’s birthdays, and maybe once in March when she makes her annual trip back up north. But now, I’ll never see her again.” He sort of shrugged off this awareness and took an awkward drag from his Camel Light. “Why did she do it?” I asked. “My dad says she’s bi-polar or something. I guess she’s been hearing voices and didn’t know how to deal with her emotions. I just can’t believe I’ll never see her again.” It was as if the repetition of this phrase started to reveal its reality. Popcan would never again see his own mother. At twelve, I couldn’t wrap my mind around that concept. I saw my mother every day and the thought of her not being around anymore panicked me. “Are you gonna be OK”, I asked him. “Oh sure, I’ll be fine…Chris and Dan will too, but I’m not sure about my dad. They’ve been divorced for years but I know he misses her and writes her letters all the time. He hasn’t been the same since she killed herself. ‘The cold November Rain’, huh”, he added with a nod and smile as he often referenced his favorite band at the time. Ironic. Spring As the snow began to melt, the waters would cut through the open field like a knife. We would walk home from school through that very field we were told to avoid. The stream led us straight into the tunnel, under the traffic, into the depths – we were walking on water. The sunlight would pierce the surrounding trees and dart through the branches desperately trying to search us out. The spring rain would rush over the sides creating a waterfall that gathered on the opposite end forming a small pond. All we talked about was summer. Although we had no plans for the upcoming months, it’s all we thought about. We never discussed school under the bridge, not even to complain. Music, sports, girls, movies, drugs (the “weak” ones), sex, and food was all the bridge cared to hear about – and we obliged. We knew that we wouldn’t see much of the bridge throughout the summer. We would be spending our time playing pick-up baseball, hockey, and football games. We would be exploring new bike paths and hanging out with girls. The spring months were my least favorite beneath the bridge. I remember lingering inside that tunnel a bit longer before heading home. I remember approaching the exit and looking back as if I was saying goodbye to a friend one last time. I remember feeling the warm sun hit my skin when I stepped back out into the daylight. The bridge had a different aura surrounding it during the spring. It’s almost like it would kick its feet up, thank us for the stories, and take a long nap. The bridge is still there. The stream that flows through is still there. The field that rests on one side and the woods adorning the other are both still there. There are no new houses or developments, unlike the rest of Canton. I pass over that bridge from time to time when I visit my parents. I wonder whose stories I’m driving over; whose memories share those ridged steel walls; and whose adolescence has yet been shaped by the bridge.