It sang when you crossed it, in car or jalopy
The steel of its deck rang a tuning fork “C”
We kids in the back seat sang a high octave copy
Or essayed a two- or three-part harmony
Whose tune never aged. The thrill was consistent
For infant or senior, teenaged or full-grown,Whatever the topic, each one was resistantDitch digger or bishop — no one was resistant
To speak over the hum — a faux pas, misdemeanor:
When immersed in the bridge’s euphonious zone.A funeral whistle, mid-Mass radio
That could wait for a time more sedate and propitious—
During the coffee commercial for some old TV show
Or folding the underwear, washing the dishes.
The hum was a balm, both for boredom and bile;
All arguments halted and all rib-poking ceased;
All frowns were replaced with a dull, vacant smile;
All foul moods were lightened, seratonin increased.
In those days before pharmacological drugs
Were used to treat sadness and chronic malaise,
A trip crost the bridge would rid brains of the bugs
That rendered us batty, flayed nerves into frays,
Encumbered our spirits, drove the saintly to drink.
That bridge song calmed many a parental nerve.
No stint in a confessional, good cry or shrink
Could match its effect. Too bad none could preserve
Its effect in a bottle or little green pill
To store in the cupboard or medicine chest
Where the kiddos might reach it to relive the thrill
When homework got hard, or had to cram for a test.
No, you had to get Dad (sometimes Mom) in the Chevy
To take you on errands across the wide river
To hear the bridge buzz as the tires rubbed heavy
Steel grates till they sang, thus sedation deliver.
It’s said, though I’ve not seen it with my own eyes
That on Sundays when families went out for a drive
The new-minted parents, not yet used to the cries
Of their babes would drive east to west and then contrive
To drive back west to east, then repeat the procedure
Until cher bébé by the bridge song was soothed.
Also, spouses in furies would exploit this neat feature
And drive till the kinks in their marriage were smoothed.
The bridge, such a boon to the car driving masses,
Was shrill, shrieking hell to the others who crossed.
For the sonorous song when you strummed its crevasses
Became far less dulcet if you left no exhaust,
But essayed to cross it on two wheels or booted.
The hum then compressed to a single split-second
That pummeled your ears and left you ill-suited
For calm meditation or prayer. If angels had beckoned
At that very moment, you’d wave them all off
While watching the Merrimack swirling beneath,
Smashing into the pilings. And you, with no quaff
Of a dram to endeaden your fear and your grief,
Would look straight ahead, take one step at a time
Till the asphalted road fin’lly held up your weight.
You’d consider it naught but the dirtiest crime
To cross it again in an ebriate state.
As a teen I once rode my new bike on that deck.
My tires both caught on the grating and jerked—
Front went right, back went left; chills up my neck,
Spine stiffened, the pedals I furiously worked
As dump trucks and buses an inch from my handlebars
Made my breath catch in my paralyzed chest.
The drivers zipped by with the screeching of rock guitars
Not slowing a beat to give a cyclist a rest.
Looking through the steel deck to the river below
I imagined the wreck if my body should slip
Through the spaces too cramped for my shoulders to go—
Borne to sea by the current if I lost my grip.I rode fast, not daring to decelerateI rode fast, not daring to decelerate
Lest I carom too far to the left or the right,
For the pull of bike rubber on rusty steel grate
Might put starving bears off of their appetite.
Lest I carom too far to the starboard or port
And the pull of bike rubber on rusty steel grate
Land my fate in the paper or a gumshoe’s report.
So, cycling back crost the bridge from the West
I sought a safe path just as solid as rock.
Crises survived build up wisdom the best:
I rode back the stone-hard pedestrian walk.
But though it might stick in this old man’s mémoir,
That terrible ride was but one of a thousand
Of fine, tuneful trips where I joined in the choir
Of steel trusses, grates and car tires carousin’.
Oh, that it still stood, buckling East Side and West,
The span that sang lullabies, admixture of
The founder’s iron vision with immigrant zest,
Raw strength and toil that built a labor of love.
The emerald span set on art deco piers
That my great-grandpa cut with his stone mason’s tools:
Its droning concerto will not leave my ears
Till I trade the black river for heavenly pools.
Photo courtesy Julien Olivier.
"Jean's Thrilling Ride O'er Le Pont Notre Dame"...