“I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, I am getting along, I am aging and eaten and have done my share of eating too. I am not washed and beautiful, in control of a shining world in which everything fits, but instead am wondering awed about on a splintered wreck I’ve come to care for, whose gnawed trees breathe the delicate air, whose bloodied and scarred creatures are my dearest companions, and whose beauty bats and shines not in its imperfections but overwhelmingly in spite of them…” ~Anne Dillard
There’s a bridge on an obscure road to a place no one really cares about that has such a life analogy for me that going to it gives me a sense of attachment. As you are travelling through the wide expanse of the prairies heading east on an almost level horizon you come across what is known as coulee. It literally can come out of nowhere and is the result of a river that has carved it's path into geological history, it has eroded it’s life on the landscape and what is left is a merandering valley that has a small river or creek ebbing it’s way through it. This coulee is near Blackie and as you arrive at it, to the left is a large chemical plant scarring the atmosphere, and to the right; what can only be described as a truly wonderful sight.
At the bottom of the coulee is a bridge; a one way bridge, that has corroded, rusted steel as it's main construction and a wooden plank base. It’s bright blue in colour and is, for some, a rather sore sight, but for me, a beautiful remnant of a life we have all left behind.
Every time we visit Wayne’s cousin we cross over this bridge and ever time I do I feel more safe on it than I ever have on the Ivor Bridge that expands the Bow River near the LaFarge plant here in Calgary. It’s a song I think, I am sure that this bridge has a place in my heart. Maybe because it reminds me of just how long my family has been around these parts or that it seems to be forgotten by the powers that be that always rip these kind of things down. Either way, me heart sings to its beauty.
It’s funny; just above the bridge on the top of the coulee is a 3 million dollar home that is for sale. A ranchers style home where you know they have been there a long time and value that land and the view from it's place above the coulee. I have often wondered why the owners haven’t demanded the bridge be replaced in consideration of the weather and all, but if I have such an attachment to it and I don’t even live there they must feel somehow the same.
The bridge reminds me of my Grandma P. All 4 foot 10 of her. Feisty, hard knocked and sweet. I don’t ever remember a raised voice or a course word, that was Grandpa P’s job. She was a city girl forced to the farm and she grinned and bore it. Egg money was her lifeblood for a while and the fall out was a bitter struggle with emphysema which never seemed to slow her down. She was the arms you fell into and the voice of reason. She taught the “Glass House” rules and she was a genuine soul. You felt home with her. She invited your love and gave it back ten fold.
Near the end, as cancer ravaged her body and age had crevassed the lines into her face she seemed so much more beautiful to me. She was so tiny and yet so strong and as she taught you how to make whipped short bread cookies or her famous ribs you felt like you were in the kitchen of a master chef and not a farm wife who came back to the city to retire.
I remember as a young girl, coming home from elementaryschool and as I would round the corner of our block I would see the little white Dynasty parked in front of my house my heart would leap with JOY and I would run, full out, because Grandma was there and that meant sugar sandwiches and love, the kind of love only a Grandma could have.
I miss her, like I miss my MOM. I pray always that I have in me their wisdom, their hopes and their way of loving.
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