We drove down to the river, my father and I. It was muggy outside and there were people
milling around, a couple of tents set up and some booths selling food. A group of people were sitting together
playing Irish music. We started to walk
down to the shore, only two bateaus had come in so far. As we go down to the river’s edge we saw some
people from church sitting on the lawn waiting.
My mother was on one of the bateaus, The
Lady Slipper. They were late coming
in and we had time to kill. As I sat
there with my Dad, sharing my skittles with the women of my mother’s church I
looked out over the river. There was a
large bridge that crossed the river, but right next to that bridge, a little
lower down were the remnants of an old bridge.
It no longer went across but it was beautiful, just sitting there on
either side of the river covered over in ivy.
I asked my Dad if there was a way to get up onto the old
bridge, he told me where to go, and then said that I should be careful because
the bridge has a bunch of rotting boards across it and there is the potential
to fall through. I thought about it for
a second. I would hate to fall through
and be the person to ruin everyone’s evening by getting hurt or dying, but I would
also hate to deny myself the experience of seeing this old bridge up close and
personal. So I decided to go. There is something magical about manmade
structures that have been reclaimed by the natural world. The bridge looked secure enough so carefully
and slowly I walked out onto the bridge.
The red rust cross beams contrasted the surrounding greenery
nicely. There were a few holes in the
wood floor, and it was certainly rotting, but overall it seemed pretty sound
structurally.
I walked out to where the bridge fell away, just over the
edge of the river and I sat down. I must
have sat there for over 2 hours. One by
one the bateaus started to come in, they each had their different ways of
announcing their arrival as they came around the river bend. A couple of them blew horns, one blew a conch
shell, another fired a flare gun. I
watched and in between boats I examined
the bridge. I looked at the rusted nuts
and bolts; I examined the pealing metal and green wood underneath. I marveled at the crossbeams up above me and I stared across at the matching ruins on
the other side of the river and I wondered what the world looked like from that
angle.
At one point I was joined by two ‘bubbas’. They walked up loudly smoking cigarettes and
drinking beer. These guys were the epitome
of the southern white trash stereotype, it was as if they fell straight out of
a B movie. There was Bruce the loud joker,
whose accent sounded like an imitation of itself, and there was his friend, I
honestly don’t remember his name, but he had a more serious quality about him. At first he seemed to be less of a caricature
than his loud friend, but then I saw the “white power” tattoo on his forearm
and I realized that he too was a B movie character but instead of the drunk
uneducated bubba, he was playing the part of the angry white supremacist.
Needless to say I did not feel entirely safe sitting with
them on that quiet bridge, but I decided it would make more sense if I were to
stay there and let them leave first. I did
make sure to point out, when they asked if I was there alone, that my Dad was
right down there by the side of river, not very far away at all. And when they asked my name, and upon hearing
it exclaimed “Shireen! That’s a weird name.”
I decided it would not be a good idea to tell them where it comes from
(Iran). When Bruce remarked that it
sounded like “Charlene and Irene mixed together” I said “Yes, it’s a combination
of both those names.”
Eventually they decided to leave. My only regret is that I didn’t get their
picture, but being up their alone I did not want to encourage them in any
way. I know, I know, they probably didn’t
mean any harm.
After my two new friends left I continued my river reverie
until finally I could hear the voices of women in the distance. It was The
lady Slipper. They came in
singing Janis Joplin’s “Mercedes Benz”.
And that was that, my James River Experience.
Day Three.
The bridge
This is one of the Bateaus coming in to port
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