A Sense of Place

Summertime meant swimming time. There was six of us. Me, Chris, Zach, mooch, Andy, and Shane, each bringing along our personality defects, piled into one car or two small trucks. The roads of Utica become more winding the further into the woods you go. The asphalt is covered with orange clay that has dried after making its way across roads in the summer showers. Roads disappear and turn into trails. The trail off the road without a sign led to a creek. Over the creek was an old rusted bridge held up by concrete, dressed with dry clay and spray paint. The clay helped our feet take grip before jumping into the creek from its edge. The patches of grass growing between the cracks would have stickers, as though the bridge was acting as a mother keeping us from running while our feet were wet. The summers always included the Nazi bridge, getting its name from swastikas painted on its frame. 

Now that we were old enough to vote, coming back to the Nazi bridge felt like home. The rust and clay hugged our feet, the patches of stickers were still there. The names of each of our high school sweethearts added to the swastikas, throwing more color against her orange and black look. Mooch had gained a little more than the freshman 15 this year. Zack and I joked about him crossing the old bridge, taunting him about making it collapse, singing an altered version of the children's nursery rhyme, Nazi Bridge is Falling Down. Fueled by moonshine, Mooch climbed the hill to the top of the bridge, ignoring our chants to jump off like the old days. He grabbed the side of the frame, which helped him to his feet, reassuring him that he'd made it. Most of the physical part was over. I could see the moonshine shimmering all over his face. The creek had changed a lot over the years, the current dragging large stones out into the middle. It had not rained as much as usual, causing the water to be shallow. Mooch was not listening to all of our "excuses," as he called them. He grabbed part of the rusted frame to pull himself up, becoming a part of the rusted arch. Dry clay fell from the bottom of his feet and sprinkled into the water. The dry clay was a warning. It moved our attention to the lack of reflection of the bridge. Shane yelled to Mooch not to jump. The bridge couldn't see itself, which to us meant it was too shallow. 

His arm pushed back, Mooch leapt forward and a deep breath echoed under the bridge. Due to his freshman 20 he had a T-shirt on to cover his belly. The shine kept him from jumping properly, and the Nazi bridge, acting again as a mother, caught him by the shirt. Red from a large laceration stained the end of a bolt that was sticking out of the bridge's frame. The five of us, careful not to run, came to pull Mooch back to the bridge's surface. His heavy behind fell on top of us. When we rolled out of the pile, Mooch rolled right onto a patch of stickers poking him, as though being admonished for not being more careful.

-J. Ellzey