Lowell Bridge, a poem from Oregon country, was first published in The Panhandler 34 (Spring 1998):12-15. Lowell Bridge The Martins led us in to Lowell Lake along the causeway that crosses the dam to the park. We trailed their camper-boat combination in a slow chain of campers, boats and cars that pearled the asphalt rim of the reservoir in a six-mile arc from the off-ramp of the freeway on the west through oak-and-aspen shaded campsites on the east to the parking lot for the boat ramp. We did the things we came to do -- we helped launch the boat, we took our turns at water skiing, steering the boat, swimming, and using up the tanning lotion early so the afternoon sun broiled us. We grilled our burgers, munched potato chips, shared our jello salads, waved at flies, and watched the young ones splash between the sand and the buoyed ropes that marked the swimming zone Jim Martin took his eldest out to ski again. We were out of cola. We wanted more than the slush the park concession sold, so I prevailed upon my eldest to walk with me to the general store at Lowell. The stage line used to stop at Lowell Creek a hundred years ago. Even now, the county keeps a highway maintenance yard and equipment depot active on the site. The old highway still links the timber lands with the coast, although newer routes attract the bulk of freight and tourist traffic, and Lowell still holds out a dozen homes, the general store in clapboard white and dust (graced with an oval neon beer sign), and the covered bridge above the reservoir. Below the aspen leaves muttering at the afternoons heat, my eldest walked with me through picnic sites littered with the modern middle class to the old highway most picnickers ignored. The roadside gave us moss or grass as often as gravel or dust. Between breaks of full sun, we followed a couple miles of green tunnel in fir, pin oak and aspen. My eldest was the age that listens with a nod or a wry glance when parents speak, but still stops to watch a squirrel hull an acorn over head, or the sharp squawk-and-thrash of a Stellars Jay. Nearing town, I pressed my first-born further. The store was on our left, but I bore right and led toward the old covered bridge, hoping to prompt an interest -- but parents choice is its own doom. A plaque declared a bridge was first built on the site in 1870, and the covered bridge in 1893. My eldest sighed, Can we go now? Time was rushing past the young. Weakened timbers, said the plaque, were replaced in 1907 and 1940. My eldest kicked a stone down the shoulder of the road into the stream. Lets go across, I said. Despite a groan, I stepped inside the dim warmth. Perhaps the polished planks of the bridge floor, with knots burnished yet yielding less than the grain wood had, could fix a motive or, perhaps, the webs of light reflecting from the creek below and slipping through a dozen cracks and knotholes might begin to woo the younger will. Swallows mudding a rafter nest held the young attention for a moment, then: Can I have the money and go get the colas? I took my wallet out to find the cash to buy off a battery of sighs on heat and smells inside the bridge. Thanks flew from the slim torso slanted forward, swinging feet and hands grown larger than mine. Ill meet you in the store, I called after. Running drummed a minute in the bridge as dark motions shrank against a square of glaring asphalt till they merged with light, all speed and desire. Id be there soon myself, given a while in the dust to trace the ghosts of carriages and wagons moving west... We each had thirsts to answer -- and pursue. R. S. Carlson
Posted on: Sun, 23 Nov 2014 03:47:56 +0000
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