Usually it’s the children who underscore my age. Suddenly, one of my nieces, who is permanently stuck in grade school in my mind, is taking college entrance exams and going on dates. Or I’m saying hello to a young man an inch or two taller than me who employs a very informed handshake, even though my memory tells me he’s a little boy who cannot figure out the security code that will open the door to his father’s office.
But this week, I’m aging with the infrastructure. The story about the shoddy repair job done on the bridge that connects San Francisco and Oakland struck me. The country’s bridges are in peril, we’re told. I’ve been across that bridge, and I don’t doubt it. I’ve seen it many times from the air, its impossible length troubling even from a distance. Once, I rode to Oakland on that bridge in a car driven by my brother. Going over, we were on the lower deck, six or eight lanes all headed East beneath a ceiling of concrete. I don’t know if it was the images I’d seen of that bridge collapsing during an earthquake, or my general fear of stupid driving, but I remember closing my eyes and focusing on my breathing during our crossing. We went to our cousin’s house for dinner, and by the time we drove back – on the top deck – we’d had enough to drink that I was no longer concerned about the engineering.
On a cold, dusky afternoon in early January after my mother died, my family and I drove to the riverfront and walked to Illinois on a recently restored bridge that had some historical significance, the details of which I cannot recall. I cannot name it exactly, but there was something ritualistic about it. My family loves bridges. I love them too, even though they seem unstable. On this morning’s news, they showed a time-lapse video of a bridge in New York that sags beneath the weight of traffic. Perhaps, I thought, the cars and trucks are bigger than they were when the bridge was built. Perhaps the people in the cars and trucks are bigger as well. I once tried to walk along the sidewalk on the Golden Gate, and I failed. I realize that it’s technically correct, but the swaying was more than I could manage.
The problem with the bridges, we’re told, is that they’re aging. They may look gracious, they may represent magnificent feats of engineering, but the average age of a bridge in the U.S. is 43. Being 43 myself, it was sobering to hear that number used to emphasize how old something is. When the average age of the nation’s bridges is 43, the experts assure us, they really need to be repaired, if not replaced. Hearing that was painful.
But the bridges and I are not alone in our age. The Arch in Saint Louis is getting old as well: it was completed on October 28, 1965, making yesterday its 44th birthday. There was something very comforting about hearing a radio host in Portland announce the anniversary of a structure that’s the original placeholder in my catalog. But more than that, all the news of bridges and monuments left me feeling very special. I had no idea that so much had been built in anticipation of my arrival.
But this week, I’m aging with the infrastructure. The story about the shoddy repair job done on the bridge that connects San Francisco and Oakland struck me. The country’s bridges are in peril, we’re told. I’ve been across that bridge, and I don’t doubt it. I’ve seen it many times from the air, its impossible length troubling even from a distance. Once, I rode to Oakland on that bridge in a car driven by my brother. Going over, we were on the lower deck, six or eight lanes all headed East beneath a ceiling of concrete. I don’t know if it was the images I’d seen of that bridge collapsing during an earthquake, or my general fear of stupid driving, but I remember closing my eyes and focusing on my breathing during our crossing. We went to our cousin’s house for dinner, and by the time we drove back – on the top deck – we’d had enough to drink that I was no longer concerned about the engineering.
On a cold, dusky afternoon in early January after my mother died, my family and I drove to the riverfront and walked to Illinois on a recently restored bridge that had some historical significance, the details of which I cannot recall. I cannot name it exactly, but there was something ritualistic about it. My family loves bridges. I love them too, even though they seem unstable. On this morning’s news, they showed a time-lapse video of a bridge in New York that sags beneath the weight of traffic. Perhaps, I thought, the cars and trucks are bigger than they were when the bridge was built. Perhaps the people in the cars and trucks are bigger as well. I once tried to walk along the sidewalk on the Golden Gate, and I failed. I realize that it’s technically correct, but the swaying was more than I could manage.
The problem with the bridges, we’re told, is that they’re aging. They may look gracious, they may represent magnificent feats of engineering, but the average age of a bridge in the U.S. is 43. Being 43 myself, it was sobering to hear that number used to emphasize how old something is. When the average age of the nation’s bridges is 43, the experts assure us, they really need to be repaired, if not replaced. Hearing that was painful.
But the bridges and I are not alone in our age. The Arch in Saint Louis is getting old as well: it was completed on October 28, 1965, making yesterday its 44th birthday. There was something very comforting about hearing a radio host in Portland announce the anniversary of a structure that’s the original placeholder in my catalog. But more than that, all the news of bridges and monuments left me feeling very special. I had no idea that so much had been built in anticipation of my arrival.
