I'm sure you are all aware that bridges have a load-bearing capacity. Even my students know that, after we build bridges out of a single sheet of paper, design it to span eight inches, and attempt to stack over three hundred pennies on the deck.
I cross several bridges in my daily travels. From old low-water bridges to new, improved low-water bridges, to high concrete spans with low side walls, to a soon-to-be demolished metal monstrosity complete with rusty dents.
Saturday, I was cruising along on the approach to the dippy old low-water bridge where the geese and city people like to perch. No sides. The whole bridge disappears under eight feet of water when it floods. So I'm always cautious coming up to the dip in the road that reveals the imminent obstacles. And Saturday, wouldn't you know it, brought me a new obstruction. I was concerned. Would that bridge hold me, my Tahoe, and the blocker? It was a scary instant. But I sped ahead at ten miles per hour. Right out onto that bridge. And I came to a non-screeching halt beside the offender...
MY SON GENIUS WITH A FANCY SCHMANCY CAMERA!
Seriously. Does this boy have to try to thwart my existence every waking moment? There's not room on that bridge for the both of us. I am in the right. Don't take his side. He was walking on a bridge built for cars. Okay, so it was most likely built around 1900. Was there cement then? This thing is old. Nobody build bridges that dip down into the creek anymore. They put the straight across, from one edge of the road to the other. A child with an Erector Set could do better than this half-hearted attempt. But I'm not here to berate the bridge-builders today. They can step aside. I'm here to chastise Genius.
Which I did, out the rolled-down passenger window of my Tahoe. And do you know his response, that seventeen-year-old son of mine, all responsible-acting, jonesin' for an MIT acceptance? He jumped on the running board and said, "Drive me to my truck." A truck which was approximately twenty-five feet away. The distance that rednecks drive up a private road before disrobing and slipping into their camo togs.
The nerve of that boy! "I wanted to get some pictures," he said. Even though he was on the way to his bowling league, Hick and The Pony having left him because he was running late.
We're gonna need a special handbasket because of him.
Genius is going to leave you with a lot of gray hairs, if he hasn't already.
ReplyDeleteIt always seemed to me that a handbasket was a weird way to go to hell. But photographers are a weird lot. Welcome to the club, Genius. Hope that new lens is workin' for you. (I know, you said don't take his side.)
ReplyDeleteA boy and his art. Perhaps Val should take a lesson from him. Everything else should be tossed into the ditches, so Val has time for her art. Writing should be a top priority. Forget that pesky "extra" job you have--the one that supplements your writing career.
ReplyDeleteJust call in today. Sit your butt in your chair at home. And write. Those people will understand...Just proclaim loud and proud, "I am an ARTIST."
Didn't you know that 17 year olds are immortal? They think they are and prove it over and over again with their lack of good sense.
ReplyDeleteStephen,
ReplyDeleteOnly my hairdresser knows for sure.
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Leenie,
You'll only encourage him. A shipment of chemicals arrived for him today. He has decided to develop his own film. The road to not-heaven will be paved with pictures taken along the way by Genius.
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Sioux,
As a matter of fact, I DID call in today. Not that it gained me any extra time. Optometrist, flu shot, two banks, the pharmacy, and Walmart robbed my butt of chair time. I need a catchy symbol for my new name: The Artist Formerly Known As Mom.
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Kathy,
I am beginning to realize that, after the gun-shooting-glass-bottles-of-gasoline-mushroom-cloud-of-fire pictures.