I have a HUGE fear of bridges. It began at an early age - I had a dream, as a wee thing, that my family was traveling by car, and for some reason my grandmother was with us, and the car flew over a bridge. Just went flying right through the concrete side, and 'Whee!', we were air-borne. Can you say 'Chitty-Chitty Bang Bang'? As is the way of dreams, the next second, my grandmother and I are slipping and sliding down this frozen hill, the bank, if you will, of the river over which the bridge runs. And we go skating across the frozen river. That's all I remember. But, for a woman of 53 years, who rarely remembers her dreams, this has stayed with me all my days. Only one other dream has had such power over me, and that one came to me when I was 33. Dreams - such weird things. But, from this wee girl's dream came the grown girls' fear of bridges.
I also have a love of the open road. I turn to my car, turn to the road, to mourn, to celebrate, to play, to run, to seek, and to hide. In the joyful blush of the first year of marriage to my first husband, we attended a Renaissance Faire in Houston, Texas, and there I had my palm read for the very first time. My then-husband attended the reading with me. The woman looked at my palm, as I watched, rapt with attention, seeking out that which she saw with ease, yet which remained hidden to me. The palm reader, garbed as a Gypsy (another interesting point, as I claim Gypsy heritage and write about Gypsy Queens and the powers therein), turned to my then-husband and said, "She drives when she's upset, doesn't she?" His and my mouths dropped open - wow, not a charlatan! She knows! How much she knew, or simply derived, I know not. I know only that she nailed me. I drive ... period.
Let us consider this, for just a moment. I have a HUGE fear of bridges. I drive ... period. Well, unless one is driving circles around a field, one is bound to encounter the stray bridge or dozen. As I encountered when my five year old and I moved from Atlanta, to San Diego. Pulling a U-Haul. With a Nissan pick-up truck. As I encountered again when I moved from Santa Barbara to Cleveland after a second divorce. And yet again, when I returned to Santa Barbara. Or simply drove the state for educational or family purposes.
Every trip will bring at least one bridge into the driver's scope of trip. My most memorable bridge story, though, is fairly recent - 2010, I believe. Winter, California style. Rains so vicious that whole pieces of road are being washed away. Cities are flooded. People can't sandbag enough. And I'm at a conference in San Francisco. By rights, I should have stayed another night. My bosses urged me to do so; no, stubborn wench that I am, I insisted on coming home. It wasn't the stubborn in me speaking; it was the fear. I needed to be home. If hell were to rain down - quite literally, in the downpour - upon us, I wanted to be home, with child and dogs and pillows I knew and could bury my head under. So off I go. Into the deluge.
So far, it's no big deal; just a little rain. Until you factor in the part of California I was currently stationed; can you say Napa? Yes, that quaint, lovely wine country, the birth of the newest California Gold Rush ... Napa, that leads to San Francisco and all points south. San Francisco, which has named each bridge, due to the sheer scope and size of them.
Named each bridge. Even typing that makes me shudder. And a double decker bridge - what brain trust came up with that idea, I ask you. Not only one layer of lives, but two, for the price of one, that can go tumbling into the icy waters of the San Francisco Bay. Oh, joy!
And it was that double decker bridge I had to cross, in torrential rains. Panic set in; deep, paralyzing panic. Five lanes of traffic, merging into three, flying at speeds of 60+ miles an hour in rains so hard, so thick, the wipers are nothing but a game to the water as it streams, no, screams, from the heavens to attack any and all beneath.
I could literally feel my heart beat a little faster; I felt my palms grow damp against the steering wheel. That's when I realized my hands ached; I was gripping the wheel so tightly I couldn't unbend my fingers. I knew I was in serious trouble.
Using my bluetooth (which has since been lost, more's the pity, since I got a ticket for talking on my cell phone while driving), I phoned Philip. And got no love on the other end of the phone. Philip was always available; this couldn't be happening. I've known him since I was 14 years old; he's always been there when I needed him, no matter where he happened to be in the world. But no, as I have my HUGE panic attack in the wrath of God rain, he's nowhere around. Great; thanks ever so much, Philip. Okay, who else can I call? My mind was racing; I could feel the panic rising again, as the shadow of the bridge loomed large.
Keith! my mind screamed out at me. Call Keith! He'll answer. Well, not always true, but my mind wasn't interested in truisms at that particular moment. My mind was interested in succor ... I was desperate for the proverbial life line. He answered the phone - and my greeting to him was uttered in a hoarse, nearly guttural tone: 'Tell me a story,' I demanded.
'Huh?'
'Tell me a story - damnit, Keith, tell me anything. I'm scared to death, the bridge is huge, it's raining so hard I can't see - tell me a story!' By now I'm nearly screaming, so great is my terror.
He talked. I drove. I can't remember what he told me, and it didn't really matter. He could have been reading word definitions to me; I didn't care. The voice of someone I trusted, resonating in my ear, allowed me to breathe, kept my eyes from the edges of the bridge, away from that dangerous seductive side, where my car liked to steer itself, as if, from the depths of the canyon or body of water, the Troll is calling: come to me, my pretty - come, where life is simple and gay. My hands didn't loosen their grip until the bridge was gone; my eyes didn't relinquish the wide-eyed stare of terror until the bridge was gone; my muscles didn't unclench until LONG after the bridge was gone ... but the voice of someone I trusted got me over the bridge in God's own rain-wrath.
So I've learned to handle my fear of bridges, and still celebrate my joy of the road.
Until this morning, when I read an article about the group of five who had planned to blow up a bridge in the Cleveland, Ohio metropolis area - a bridge I've driven over many, many times.
It isn't enough we have to worry with wind and rain and our own deep seated fears when it comes to bridges. Now we have anarchists (as they were labeling themselves to be) wishing to show us the error of our ways by laying trust in the bridge.
Sure, I'm going to sleep at night. As if.....
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