Today

Today the house was shown and I do not know yet whether or not it is going to be sold.

Today I learned Wesley is resigning from the craft school.

Today I prepared for my grant finalist interview, which occurs Saturday in BigCity, NC.

TodayI found a lovely definition for my favorite form of writing (aside from the essay): “What is a lyrical essay? Aesthetically, there is usually some sort of rhythm or logic to the language. The diction is often as carefully chosen as with a poem. Its paragraphs are organized like an essay's, with a topic sentence, and its whole is organized like a piece of fiction or non-fiction—leaping around is common if not encouraged between paragraphs and no underlying structure is necessary. Lastly, the lyrical essay is different. It should not conform completely to any standards, it is an individual and fiercely so.”

Today is just a few more days away from what could be the most exciting Election Day in a long time.

Today there were 15 gloriously large wild turkey in the lower field when I woke up.

W is for Winter. Winter is for Writing.

The wind ripped down Fork Mountain this evening, tossing branches like broken arms and sending leaves through the air like so many pieces of confetti. Chaos can be beautiful, and as we lean more and more into winter, I can feel the outdoors demanding my attention. Winter is the time I’m more apt to take longer walks in the woods. It is the time I’ll stop to see through the forest, because without the leaves, the light falls in glorious rays and the tree bark takes on this luminous gray tone I’m absolutely enamored with.

It is also the time of deep writing. After November 17th, I’m officially on seasonal layoff and that’s when I can devote myself full bore to writing. I can balance my time between the creative and the freelance more, and I’ll have four major grant and fellowship applications off my desk. The only trick will be making sure that the holidays and visitors and seasonal social events don’t suck up my time. I want to celebrate and enjoy company, but I also need to hibernate with my first love, words.

Winter Has Arrived

This morning I awoke to an indoor temperature of 47 degrees and two inches of snow outside. Wind howled through the still-bright leaves and I leapt from bed godspeed, certain it was now or never. Bow saw and buckets in tow, I headed straight for the woodpile, where a stack of long, dried sticks awaited downsizing. Ninety minutes later, I’d cut five buckets of kindling, hauled three sacs of wood to the mudroom, and safely driven my car down the mountain to the paved road.

As I hiked back up, I couldn’t help but notice the brilliant colors of the leaves crushed beneath the snow. In some places, my boots had kicked up the snow and mud blotched out the brightness. But in others, fall colors bloomed beneath the powder fresh snow, rioting in a cacophony of color amidst all the bluster. Before dusting off my boots to go inside, I lifted my gaze to the tree tops and delighted in the vision of gold and maple-red leaves shaking in the breeze, little shakes of snow falling down.

Recipe for Writing

[Sorry for the delay.]

The past few days, a minor case of the crazies sent me back my more creative self. This is a welcome shift from the past few weeks of magazine writing mania. Choose your evil, I guess, eh? There is an odd comfort, though, in watching it all come together internally as though I were a fly on the wall in my own semi-demolition.

But I exaggerate.

Really, the recipe is quite simple: Start with a few nights rough sleep. Add an awe-inspiring landscape at the peak of change (and therefore ripe with metaphor). Shake with one or more human emotions experienced under pressure and unrequited for a period greater than 48 hours. At the peak of said pressure, sit down to write. Do not get up.

Works every time. I swear.

Just In Case It Wasn't Clear

I can't envision dating someone right now, yet it seems to be the pressing question.
To all the people who keep asking that question:

I insist--I don't want to be with anyone right now. I'd rather write. I have four or five big irons in the fire for my writing career and I want a handle on at least one of them before I even THINK of messing around with a relationship. Relationships take time and emotional energy. Right now, I am in control of my own time and my own emotional energy and that has allowed me to do as much as I have. To risk that is to risk losing everything.

And furthermore--I'll know him when I see him. That's how it's always been for me and probably always will be. I'm not looking and I'm not expecting. I'm doing my own thing (dammit!) and if in the hurry and flurry of that somebody comes along that demands I take pause in body, mind, and spirit. Well then. I'll know enough to take the time and make it happen.

Meanwhile--back to work.

News, news, news

Good news: I made first cuts on the Regional Artist Grant Project. My interview is in a week and a half. This is the small one – about $900 – but it’s to fund my trip to AWP Chicago in 2009. Wish me luck.

Meantime: Here’s what I’m doing using the stationary recumbent exercise bike I pulled out of my parent’s attic and set up in my loft at home: interval training.

Also: I’m almost done with the NC Fellowship application for writers. That’s for $10,000. It feels the weakest to me out of the bunch, but it can’t hurt to try.

The only thing that hurts is wanting something so bad. But it’s a good hurt—like when you’re getting a massage.

PR

Read my latest article, featuring Brent Skidmore’s artwork at the Mint Museum of Craft + Design!

Footbridges: Digging Deeper

I decide I need to George Canipe’s son, James, who lives in Marion now. James himself is old enough to be retired, but he remembers the years his father worked for the state as Bridge Foreman of our mountain counties. He also remembers the floods of ’77.

“When my father took over the crew, he had three counties: Mitchell, Avery, and Yancey. As people retired or died, the crew dwindled to about 12 and the state gave Avery county to the Boone district. The last 20 years, then, he just had two crew of 2 that covered two counties,” James says. “He was always tired when he came home, I remember that. And he liked to say, ‘I feel more like I do now than I did a while ago.’” He pauses to laugh, taking his time with the memory.

I’m not sure what I thought I’d find by interview him, but I know there are very few records of George Canipe’s accomplishments and the ones that we do have are difficult to verify. George’s wife Corrine was sweet as a button, but not entirely helpful when it came to specifics. I’ve got guys at the DOT in Raleigh helping me out right now, slow and steady—one can only hope, with regard to date verification. But nobody seems to have a photo of George at work, for instance.

“He designed a lot of those footbridges and rebuilt the ones that were there already,” says James. “It took months and months to repair all the bridges after that flood in ’77. You can still see places on Mount Mitchell where there’s no timber for everything be washed out.”

When I ask James whether he remembers crossing any swinging bridges in his time, his answer is anticlimactic. It seems that even by his generation, the significance of the bridges was dying out. “They were important before they ever got the vehicle bridges in,” says James. “It was the only way across the river unless the river froze up and you could cross that way.”

Still, there a story is unfolding. The last bridge Shane and I crossed—the very last one on our list—was picture-perfect but had an empty house on one side and a high-tech private property house on the other. It was marked on either side by sentinel defunct satellite dishes—a rather ominous symbol, especially since many of the people from the time of the swinging footbridges are now gone, too. The whole thing felt like walking on skeletons.

Meanwhile, a few bridges before that, we crossed a bridge and turned back before we even got halfway because we didn’t want to die. The only thing on the other side was barren, bulldozed foothills and a few stray cows. Not a grass blade in site. Prior to that, we spent an hour looking for a bridge that is no longer there (and I’ll be telling DOT, so they can update their maps) and another half hour looking for an additional bridge that was also gone. That same day, we found the same bridge twice from opposite approaches and were totally bummed when we realized what we’d done.

There are bridges in these counties that nobody is crossing. That is how all of this started for me. I believe that has metaphorical and historical significance and I’m writing may way toward whatever meaning I can make of that. It’s a dying way of life, but it’s also come to symbolize a slough of missed opportunities. Likewise, it calls into question our notions of nostalgia, of looking from the outside in, of poverty, of community.

There’s more. There’s got to be more. I just have to keep writing.

Lists

Things I think about every day, as of late:
1. Whether or not I got enough sleep.
2. What kind of espresso drink I will have that day.
3. If Obama will win or not.
4. Why I haven't lost any weight in over a year despite the fact that I work out 5 times per week and eat healthy food (last month being the exception, when Doctor's orders had me on rest)
5. Whether I should grow my hair out again...or not
6. If I will get the Arts Writers grant
7. If my knees hurt, why. If they didn't, praise for my Physical Therapist. (More days than not, they DON'T hurt!)
8. If the evening forecast means I'll need to build a fire that night.
9. Why I have resistance to the applications for the Top Secret fellowship and why I keep putting off the NC Fellowship.

Things I am looking forward to as of late:
1. January 20th, 2009 (W's last day in office)
2. Getting laid off from work this winter (= more time to write)
3. Seeing my parent's dog Gus, officially the best dog in the world (besides the ones I had growing up, which are now deceased).
4. More footbridges and the next collaboration with Shane (highway expansion project, mines past and present, and more)

Madame Rimsky-Korsakov

I felt addled all day. Madame Rimsky-Korsakov. Who was she? Wife of the famous composer, Nicoli Rimsky-Korsakov, yes. But I want more.

The psychic said that I was meant to see that painting and that whomever I was with when I saw it (I didn’t tell her I was with anyone, she just knew) was my soul mate. But not my only soul mate, she was quick to qualify. Interestingly enough, I was with GP, indeed my soul mate at one time.

She also said that the woman in the painting, Madame R-K had unfinished business in that life with the man who painted that painting (my ancestor, Franz Xaver Winterhalter). Winterhalter, it turns out, never married (I learned this on Wikipedia), but proposed once and was turned down.

Here is a poem, written by James Ragan, that surmises what this connection might be. Indeed, this poet saw the portrait in the same museum that I did and felt compelled to articulate the relations between artist and muse.

Madam Rimsky-Korsakov Peinture at the Musee d’Orsay
by James Ragan

a.
Her hand at the left breast clutching
locks of brown curls, Winterhalter
must have mourned to send it there,
his own, a brush in paint
regretting loss as too familiar.

He would rather part the fingers, each lithe stroke
a stranger teasing hair, unsexed, just so.
If only he could creep behind the canvas,
not to memorize which brown the eyes,

which green, which light magenta
most improves an unapproving face,
but to brood; could he undo the blue
ribbon where the heart lives? Or breathe
soft hues against the white lace?

He would stall the flow of resignation
each brow permits to spill into her eyes,
where the bodice heaves beneath in rhythms
long and quiet, breath would part the space.

b.
Watch how jealousy’s soft green feather
swells her husband’s brow,
one eye traveling notes along the scale,
the other down her hair
to where the hand creates a rose.

If only he could undo the eyes’ imagined veil,
languid where the soul dies
or mirror her thoughts
in the rush of a rising scherzo,

he would bare her breasts
to each eye’s passing,
hurried once as tourists do,
now returned with voyeur passion.
If only he could father lust as inspiration.

To what picture at the exhibition should he turn?
When they creep behind the camera lens,
is it out of shame for having framed his wife,
undressed, a lover in their found imaginations?

The Hillbillly Psychic

I swore I'd never do it. In fact, most of my life I've been not only hesitant to go to a psychic, but superstitious about it. Leave well enough alone, I thought. No need to taint the future with what somebody else thinks may or may not happen. But Wesley's descriptions of this woman were simply too powerful to ignore. And after a few glasses of wine with friends a few months ago, we all toasted and decided we'd go see the self-dubbed the hillbilly psychic ourselves.

Tonight was such a night, and while I went under the pretense of being about to write about the experience, I was surprisingly swept up in it and cannot even being to comprehend the evening with enough clarity to put it into words just yet.

That said, I can at least attempt to jot down some of her advice to me while it's still fresh in my head:

1. She told me I had an old man with me in the room that night, someone who was dressed in uniform for the Navy or Air Force. She told me it was my grandfather and that he was doing fine but that he still had work to do and that is why he was with me tonight. (And yes, my grandfather is deceased and yes, he was in the Air Force.)

2. She told me my animal was the dolphin and also that it was the butterfly.

3. She told me that I was in a place where I was trying to find balance between practicality and creativity. She told me that I had one step in practicality and another foot a step up into creativity, and that I'd have to hold out for a while in this place. She told me that I'd know when the time was right to take that leap into my next achievements. She told me that my creativity had a rhythm and it was like this (hand motion: like a single, precise clap, repeated with determination and pacing).

4. She told me that every time she looked at me tonight that I was turning more and more into an oil painting from the 19th century of a very wealthy woman who I was in a past life. She described the painting quite well and, though I didn't say a word, I knew exactly which painting she was talking about. It is a painting by my great, great, great uncle Franz Xaver Winterhalter of Madame Rimsky-Korsakov. I saw this painting in Paris six years ago and time stopped because I felt like I was looking at myself in another realm. The psychic did not know any of this when I walked in the room but somehow she conjured that woman, who she says in that life had unfinished business with the painter which might be why I came back looking so much like her in another life, a direct descendant of the painter himself. I know, this all sounds hokey, but I'm just trying to get this all down before I forget (and remember, I'm a total skeptic when it comes to this stuff so it's kind of amazing how good she was).

5. She told me that I need to sleep more. She told me that I think too much. She told me not to be afraid of being wealthy. She told me that she would be very surprised if I didn't get one of the grants I am applying for. She told me to be careful of what I eat. She told me to do martial arts until I thought I didn't need to do it anymore but that for now, it was a good thing in my life that provided balance and that there was somebody there for me to benefit from.

6. She told me that GP was one of my soul mates but that he wasn't the one I would be with ultimately...not unless he changed so much that he was like a different man. She told me that she couldn't see the person I woudl have as a life partner because I haven't found him yet.

7. She told me that my mother was worried and confused about me and that she had concern for some man in my life.

8. She told me she could feel New York and Florida and that the name Marie or anyone who is a Pisces might have significance in my future.

That's all.
For now.

WHAT
A
NIGHT...

Footbridge 297W (the beginning of the story)

He’s supposed to be a memorable guy. “Friendly, no dogs,” the employees at DOT told me. “Outside Burnsville near Price’s Creek, cut off the highway and turn left onto Cane River Road. Follow that for three or four miles and you’ll see the bridge crossing right into this man’s front yard. He’s the one who remembers the ’77 floods and he’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

Three or four miles is actually more like six and it’s not off Cane River Road, but off 19W toward Eriwn instead. By now, we understand how to be patient bridge hunters. We know how to follow the river, above all else—and that means above instinct, above directions, and above maps. We also know once we cross a vehicle bridge on 19W, following the river as we must, it puts us on the right side of the river, therefore we’re getting close. Shane spots it first.

“There it is,” he says, turning off the main road as soon as he can. “I think we can follow this road down instead.” Indeed, it’s an ancient, rutted road not frequently traveled, but traveled enough for Shane’s Honda Passport to navigate us safely there.

In order to get to the man’s house, we have to drive over two hand-built vehicle bridges only about twelve inches wider than the car. The first looks relatively safe, though the far end of it is more or less “glued” to a rocky island in the middle of Cane River with a homemade mix of cement and gravel. We cross without thinking twice, then stop on a small plateau of cement in the middle of the river. Picture us there, two kids, a big ol’ car with South Carolina plates, perched on a cement island with plants and boulders all around, between two small bridges not much wider or longer than the car itself.

Shane nods in the direction of the next bridge and looks at me. “What do you think?”

I look at the other side of the bridge to see how worn the road is. Still two ruts, still fairly low grass, still—maybe—passable. This bridge is even narrower though, and supported by two fat logs with rough, wide planks nailed perpendicular across the top. “Why not?” I say, knocking on the dashboard for good luck.

We inch forward in the car but just as the tires hit the first seam of the bridge, Shane hits the breaks. “I’ve got to check this out first,” he says, popping the car door open.

I get out too and join him in the hopping and stomping. It’s a funny way to test a bridge, really, since if it weren’t stable we’d both fall right on through. But here the stakes aren’t very high. The river is shallow and rushes beneath the bridge just a few inches below.

We hop back in and drive across, winding around to the old man’s house and a FOR SALE sign posted in the yard.

“Maybe he died,” I say. The house looks totally abandoned. He’d been the last on our list of residents for a primary source interview. Truth be told, we have most of what we need for the magazine article—it’s the other stories that come out during such interviews that we’re more interested in.

Shane parks the car and we hop out—he with his tripod and camera, me with my laptop. I pass a dying stand of hemlock trees and make for the old man’s porch. Shane makes for the bridge which is, ironically, guarded on either end by gigantic, defunct satellite dishes . A gauge on the front steps registers 62 degrees. Just a few miles back into town, the bank sign said 80 (a record high for today), and the difference between the two somehow sums it all up. We’re tucked back against steep foothills and the mid-afternoon light is hardly generous. It falls in pockets along the river, but doesn’t touch the old man’s house. I rock a little on the bench and make myself at home on the front porch.

From here, the old man would have had a perfect view of bridge 297W, built in 1957 by George Canipe and his team. It’s a short bridge, spanning maybe 100 feet, and despite its age it’s in excellent shape. End to end the bridge forms a picture perfect arch about fifty feet above Cane River, steel cables running parallel above the walkway, keeping everything taut. The river, low as it is these days, rushes quietly around the rock island where we crossed the two vehicle bridges, and the sound can be heard from the porch.

“It’s a good one,” Shane shouts over his shoulder. He’s walking toward the halfway point of the bridge, squinting into the sunlight. Each step sends a ripple down the wood, one zipping forward in waves to the other side of the bridge, another shooting back like a small tail. From this angle, the bridge’s function comes together perfectly. Step, bounce, step, bounce. Forward, forward, until finally he exits on the other side of the river where the bridge is bordered by rows of apple trees that parallel the river.

Half a century ago, this would have shaved miles off his trip, giving him direct access to the state highway. Turn left, you’ll head toward Tennessee. Right, and you’ll head back to Burnsville. Now, this bridge leads to an old man’s abandoned house on one side, and an electric-fenced miniature garden of Eden on somebody’s private property on the other. I hop up from my perch on the porch and cross too, and I can’t help but smile when I do it. He’s right: It’s a good one.

A Few More Footbridge Pics

Been following this project? Here's more:

Meet the photographer (sidebar link on right side of my website, under the first bullet point). Although I took the picture on my main page, I've posted a new one on the sidebar as well, which were taken by Shane.

More excursions soon...stay tuned!

Notes on Collaboration

1. Shane sees color where I’d never think to look. Once, lost on a windy road heading to a bridge nobody seemed to have a name for, we pulled over so he could photograph an abandoned old cinder block building. When we stopped, I agreed that the building looked cool and I thought I understood why he might want to shoot it. But he got out of the car and headed straight for a side wall of the buildling. Old red, white, and blue paint chipped away in sheets off the cinder blocks. He squatted down and zoomed in, framing the picture just so. I haven’t seen the image yet, but I imagine you can’t even tell it’s from an old building. What mattered more, then, were the colors. The way the paint captured and revealed the passage of time. And perhaps, even, the symbolism of those three colors decaying together.

2. We were listening to NPR and lost again, looking for a bridge on a road that didn’t exist according to any of the three maps we had. “Can we turn it off?” I asked. “Sure, why?” said Shane. I paused. “Well,” I said, “I guess it would be like somebody splashing colors in front of your eyes every few seconds. Color, color, color.” He smiled and nodded, then reached for the dial.

3. Staying organized, professional, and connected are some of my better skills. Staying in the present moment, seeing how each opportunity unfolds from instant to instance is one of Shane’s better skills. I get shit done. He knows how to have fun. In this way, I think we’re each teaching the other a little bit about how to balance things out in our creative lives. This is good.

4. Despite those differences, we share mutual obsessions, hence the collaboration. A fascination with dying emblems, symbols, ways of life, cultures, and norms is probably the biggie. Also, offering the slightly political or guided view by telling a story a particular way or shooting an image a particular way. In this way, the photos are just pictures, they’re works of art—and the essays aren’t just words, they’re an invitation to go deeper.

5. Checking in is important. Even if it’s for ten minutes in passing on a day when we’re not out looking for bridges. I’ve never collaborated with anyone to this extent before so this is all new to me. But touching base, sharing info—yes, this is crucial.

6. So is sharing responsibilities. This week, we split up a list of four different places to call and talk to about the possibilities of funding this as a larger book project. It lightens the load, motivates, and keeps the energy fresh.

7. Taking notes is crucial. So much can happen in one day, one visit, one interview, one bridge. I’m learning that it can’t possibly all be written down right away. And I’ve started calling the footbridges blog posts “sketches.” This is art-talk but Shane gets it and the more I think about it, it makes sense. They’re notes on an experience. They’re a first, informal attempt, to make meaning. And the posts will become invaluable when I go back later to refine these experiences into complete essays.

It Could Have been 1977

{…continued from yesterday…}

It’s the man we tried to wave to, only now he’s standing, one arm pivoting a bow against the fiddle strings. We walk back toward the entrance to the footbridge, but even the sound of the gravel underfoot drowns out our serenade. The music beckons us to stop. Stand still. Take it all in. And at this moment, it’s impossible to think he’s playing for anyone other than us, two non-natives in scrappy clothes come to see the bridge he’s been looking at every day for the past few decades.

When the man switches from fiddle to mandolin, we know what to do. Snatching up his tripod, Shane pivots on his heels and starts walking at a good clip toward the bridge. He crosses ahead of me and is at the man’s front yard in no time. I grab my clipboard from the car and hustle over.

“Got a name for this bridge?” Shan asks from the perimeter of the man’s yard.

The man scratches his head. A small gold earring catches the light and I see he’s unusually tan. “Well, I don’t think so,” he says. One sentence gives him away. Like us, he isn’t from here (or as the natives say, he’s “from away.”) “I guess you might call it the Whitson’s bridge, since that’s the road on the other side.”

“We’re doing some research on the footbridges,” Shane says. “How old do you think this one is?”

I flip through my notes and see it was built in 1964, which means it survived the 1977 flood—no small matter.

“I’d say sometime in the sixties,” the man says. We nod.

“Do you mind if we come on up for a minute?” I ask, pen in hand.

He points to a steep rock path and waves us over. We amble up, then open a curtain of faux bamboo rods (painted PVC piping) to step onto his porch.

“I’m Lenny,” he says, offering his hand. “And we call you folks ‘The Bridge People.’ Me and my wife. Lots of people come and go here trying to get a look at the bridge.”

“The Bridge People, eh?” I smile.

“We’re from Florida but we’ve been here long enough. “This was a main thoroughfare a long time ago. That was the easiest way to get over into town. My wife and I, we still cross it and walk down Whitson’s Road. Back in ’77 there was a huge flood. A tremendous flood. Water went up over the top of that bridge and spilled into the road here.”

Shane and I read about this flood. In fact, when we interviewed Corrine she shared two picture books with us documenting the damage. A report published by the Public Affairs office of the DOT states that continuous rains dumped 13 inches of water in less than three days in November. Sixteen counties in Western North Carolina were declared a disaster area by President Jimmy Carter and relief efforts went on through the coldest months of the winter.

“The river burst its banks. People couldn’t come or go for days,” says Lenny. “When it was all over, the restoration crews raised the bridge higher, so if anything like that every happened again the bridge wouldn’t get caught up in the log jams like that.”

The report says that almost 100 bridges were destroyed in the ’77 flood and 390 miles of roadway were damaged. The damages exceeded $17 million and 200 pieces of equipment from all over the state were brought in for restorations. The flood claimed eleven lives. George Canipe would have been among the many workers swinging 12-hour shifts for more than 35 days in a row. His work crews at the time, which numbered only 12 men (one team of 6 for Yancey County and one team of 6 for Mitchell County), was joined by more than 1200 employees from all over the state who were transported to assist with the relief efforts.

“A good flood really cleans a place out, though.” Lenny nods his head. Runs his palms along the porch banister. He looks out at the river for a while, then turns to us with a smile. “Afterward there were millions of balls. You name a ball. Tennis balls, baseballs, soccer balls.”

He waves his hands in the air like a wizard, as if to conjure the flood. His voice raises, and a smile lights up. “There were pumpkins and potatoes! There were barrels! There were pots and pans and trees like you wouldn’t believe. But oh my God, the balls. Just everywhere!” Lenny’s almost forgotten us, caught in the eddy of the memory. He can see it all in his mind’s eye: that flood, those balls, and so many brown tons of water rushing by just a hair’s breath from the porch we’re standing on.

He’s right. We’re just The Bridge People come to make our passage, and today the river is quiet and calm as ever—but I swear, if you’d been there with Lenny’s sweet music pulling you onto that porch, you’d have seen it too. That river, so high. Those balls. That bridge twisting and snapping against the current. It was a close call. But we made it back to the car, safe and sound, in search of our next bridge…

Bridge 222W

Bridge 222W near Whitson’s road, on the Yancey/Mitchell county line, was built or rebuilt in 1964 and spans well over 200 feet. To get there, you have to drive slow enough to see the ripples along the North Toe as you ride parallel on 197. It falls between Red Hill and Green Mountain and gives residents access to a gravel road on the Mitchell side, which is a much safer commute on foot or bike than the state highway on the Yancey side. If you cross the footbridge and follow that gravel road, you’ll get spit out in downtown Green Mountain proper.

Not far from where we park, Shane and I notice a man in his sixties sitting on his porch. We caution a wave but he doesn’t see us. I dash up the steps and start bounding across the bridge, each leap rippling down the footbridge. Shane’s figured out that if he walks opposite of me, my feet will land just as the walkway arches up from the ripple effect of his steps, and vice versa. This makes for a less forgiving landing but a more raucous run altogether.

It’s impossible to mark the true middle of each bridge, but I venture a guess each time, clutching the rusted steal cables and leaning my whole torso out above the water. When I do this, the bridge tips a little and bends under pressure. Shane smiles and grabs a steel cable of his own for support.

Beneath these bridges, trout seem ever-present, their slick gray bodies bending against the current. At first glance, they’re holding firm in the same spot on the river, but the constant passage of water disproves this theory. Each second, a new parcel of river washed over the fish, the old one washing downstream, tumbling over the rocks. It’s an old Zen koan—you can’t step in the same river twice—and there’s no denying it at this height, the fish fanning their tails against the current, each swish giving way to the next.

On the other side, a woodchuck perches in the heavy brush. They freeze instinctually, then waddle away to their underground tunnels. But this one seems particularly charmed by us, staring for quite some time and fiddling his short, pudgy palms. And just as the woodchuck darts off, that’s when Shane hears it. Quiet at first, but once we stop walking the gravel road and stand completely still, there’s no mistaking that sound from across the river. It is the sound of fiddle being played on the porch about one hundred yards away, back on the Yancey side of the river.

{…more tomorrow….}

Update

Here is what is happening:
The writing business keeps growing. And growing and growing. In fact, since April I haven’t had a moment where I didn’t have an essay due for some publication or another. It’s getting rather exciting!

And here is what I must do:
Keep saying yes, keep saving, keep checking in and maintaining balance. I have decided to be laid off this winter (weird, I know, but I actually get a choice). That means no health insurance but my employer will indeed file for unemployment for me. I have six more weeks of work before all of this goes into affect.

Here is what else I must do before then, bare minimum, for my creative writing:
Submit to the Narrative U30 competition (and revise my story for it). Apply for the Top Secret Fellowship and the NC Arts Fellowship. Call the NC Tourism dep’t.

Here is what I must do when I get laid off:
Divide my time 50/50 between the arts writing and the creative writing. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. If I let myself tip this scale too early on in my career, I’ll start a bad habit of putting the money work first. If I can go 50/50, eventually the creative work will pay, too. Period.

[...Uh...]

I will return to regularly scheduled programming by Monday night. I swear.

Later, at Footbridge 224W (continued)

LATER, AT 224W
“What are you looking at?”

A white-haired woman appears from the small mountain home. We’d thought we were alone.

“We’re researching a story on the bridges, Ma’am,” says Shane. He’d been photographing remnants of trash at the abandoned house. She must have been peeking through the shades next door. As soon as he started ascending her hill, curiosity called her out of the house.

“What’s that?” She cups her ears in her hands and leans forward in her stance on the porch. “I cain’t hear you.”

I hustle to catch up with to Shane. He stops halfway up an incredibly steep but tiny mound of a hill—it must ascend about at about 45 degrees for just 50 feet. I’m stationed at the bottom. The woman steps off her porch and peers down at us from the top of this tiny hill. We strain our necks to see her and she strains hers to peer down, trying to understand what on earth we’re saying.

“Do you have a name for the footbridge, Ma’am?” I ask.

“Huh?” she yells.

Shane passes my question up the hill, repeating the question at top sound.

“Well honey, I don’t know. I just don’t know. We never really called it anything, tell you truth.”

“Do you use the bridge anymore?” I ask. Shane relays the message.

“My friend does. She comes over about once a month. Crosses the bridge there from the other side. Comes to visit.”

“Do you remember a time when more people used it?” I ask, nodding to Shane. Shane repeats the question.

“Yes, well back then, yes. Lots of families went over it. Back and forth. But it’s not like that now.” She stuffs her hands in her apron pockets and gazes at the bridge for a moment.

It’s been hard finding the right way to ask a question during this project. Add to that the fact that most of my interview subjects are struggling with memory, and the fact that I’m not particularly strong in my research skills, and getting just the right quote can be tricky.

We don’t get much from this old woman, but we do get the image of us three on her little knob of a hill, relaying messages back and forth on a foggy, Carolina Mountain morning. We also get a tip off and directions to the next bridge, which is off an unmarked road that’s not even on any maps. The woman uses the words “right” and “left” in such abundance, we aren’t entirely certain which way to go, but it turns out she eventually set on the right road. In this small way, she saves the day.

“Right. I mean left. I said left. You turn left after the big house, you know, right there at the bend in the road.” She wags a crooked finger downstream, pointing toward the road we came in on.

Shane and I exchange glances. Neither one of us understands the direction she is talking about.

“After that big house you go for a while until you get to the hardtop. Then go left. Right there, go left.”

“Left at the paved road?” Shane asks.

“Hard top. Left right there at the hard top,” she hollers down. “Look for the Double Island Baptist Church and a big rock wall. Turn right there. Left at the wall. Go down until you’re at the river. That’s Lunday. You’ll find it.”

“Thank you so much,” I say. She looks at me blankly.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to take your portrait,” says Shane.

Her mouth drops wide open, then she steps back from the hill and turns her back. “Oh, oh no you don’t. I don’t even have my dentures in! No thank you.”

“Ok, thank you ma’am,” says Shane.

“I’ve got my washing to get to now.” She turns back to her porch and waves us off without a backward glance.

“Thanks again!” we yell but she cannot hear us.

As it turns out 224W is the No Name Bridge. The woman doesn’t have a name for it and the guys at DOT don’t have a name for it. Her son who lives further down the road has no name for it and a man we interview later that day doesn’t have a name for it either. A woman I call on the phone who grew up within eyesight of the bridge her whole life doesn’t have a name for it, either.

No Name Bridge or not, it’s the second oldest in the state and in my mind’s eye I can still see it, strong as ever, just waiting for somebody to cross.