BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!

Hello, Readers!

The Irises are coming; I confess that I came to the realization last weekend that I was rushing to complete the painting, and that this was not particularly conducive to a quality product.  So I am slowing down, taking my time, and thinking about what I need to do to get it right.

Here is a picture of what I have so far:

(The canvas is another big one: 30" X 40" - that is partly why it is taking me so long to finish - It takes a lot of time to apply all that paint on that much canvas...)

But in the meanwhile, there was an exciting hullabaloo where I live: our bridge got blown up!  

Yes, you read that right!  Last Sunday at approximately 8 a.m., several thousand of my fellow citizens and visitors witnessed our own live version of the last few minutes of The Bridge on the River Kwai...  (Although we were not joined by William Holden or David Niven, we did cue up the "da da, da da da dum dum dum" song, and we  thought seriously about putting on sweaty, filthy, WWII uniforms...)

Our old bridge had been built in the 1930's after it's predecessor had been washed away in a flood.  

It was a charming, silvery green truss bridge, rusted and mossy, with four narrow lanes of well patched asphalt. Although it was not used often, there was a slim sidewalk that had been hung on like an afterthought along the west side of the roadway.

yet another blurry picture, but it is too late to retake it now!

The old bridge was literally the gateway to our community.  Any drivers coming by car from San Antonio, Austin or points in between would have to cross the bridge so that they could get their rumbling stomachs to the chicken fried steak, barbeque and pie that was waiting for them on the other side.  If you crossed with your windows open, your journey was punctuated by the rhythmic hissing of air brakes, car radios, and the "whump, whump, whump" of the sea doos as they skipped across the lake.

The view of the bridge was particularly compelling coming in to Marble Falls at night... Traveling through the dark country (often, for us, with sleepy boys jostling in the back seat of the car), we would drive on toward the last hill, with the road before us illuminated only by headlights pointing us forward in the inky black.

Then, curving over the crest of the highway, would see the twinkling glow of our entire town spread out before us in the valley below. Following the ribbon of the road down toward the lights and the bridge, we would call to the backseat, "wake up, sleepy boys, we're almost home..."  Little silvery blonde heads would bob up, coming to life, as heavy eyes blinked open, reflecting back the yellow glow of the street lamps guiding our path across the water.

From our platform high above the lake we saw a constant aquatic parade: dozens of sail boats, tube floaters, water skiers and an ever present jet ski ballet.  In the sweaty heat each August, we witnessed (and were deafened by the noise of) powerful engines racing at the annual dragboat festival presented by our Chamber.  At Christmas time each year, the bridge was the very best place to view thousands of Christmas lights, shimmering brightly enough to make your eyes hurt as they were reflected in the still water of the lake.  

In that way, crossing back and forth on the bridge kept time for us - the view, ever changing, yet ever the same, cycled  through each season, period and event, even after the sleepy heads in the back were all grown up...

Because the old bridge had been pronounced functionally obsolete (a cruel turn of phrase, eh?) - the state Department of Transportation began working on a new gateway for Marble Falls.  The plans called for the construction of two new bridges that would separately handle both south and northbound traffic over the waterway. 

They began a few years ago by first building the new and improved model, which was placed right alongside (within spittin' distance) of our original old girl.  It was exciting to see the construction, which only added to the view as we crossed back and forth.  After pouring massive supports, workers laid out platforms, one by one, from the north and south ends of the structure, until finally they met in the middle.

It was definitely small town exciting when the flaggers invited us to drive on the new span, which exclusively carried the northbound traffic for several weeks.  Then about a month ago, we were all waved to the other side, as the new bridge took on every car crossing.

Soon, bit by bit, the giant yellow machines came and ate what they could scavenge off of the old bridge until some engineer with dynamite burning a hole in his pocket pronounced her ready to blow.

About 6:30 on Sunday morning, cars started lining up on the streets below our building.

There was as much traffic milling around downtown as I have ever seen, and people were excited, happy, and in a very festive mood.


Based on the color of their clothing, many were celebrating both the explosion and Saint Patrick's Day - though I doubt many appreciated the irony of the bridge still wearing her own sad flecks of shamrock green paint.

The ArtDemiGod and I leaned our heads out the windows on the front of our second story loft, which gave us a perfect view of both the passing parade and the unsuspecting bridge.  Everyone, from dads with little kids hoisted on their shoulders, to news crews, to still a little drunk South by Southwesters, to old folks who were around here when the bridge had been built, were all making a beeline for the lakeside.

Because we had the windows open, we could hear snatches of excited conversation, birds singing in the calm spring air, and the pounding of running feet as we moved closer to the appointed hour.

Officials blasted warning horns, with the assembled crowd holding a gasped breath in anticipation.  We leaned out the windows, cameras and binoculars poised.

Then, like a fiery zipline, the charges were detonated across the bridge, from north to south.  The links above (both in this paragraph and at the beginning of the blog posting) will take you to video and still pictures (like the professional one below) of the event... it is really well worth checking out....

At right is what we saw (in the aftermath) from our window... (when it actually blew, we saw the charges going off, but honestly, I was too mesmerized to even remember that I had a camera in my hand.)

Each blast gave out a percussive BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! that shook our teeth even from three blocks away.

Right after the explosion, there was a mighty whoop, applause and cheering from the crowd.  Then silence.  It was pretty bizarre.

You can see the smoke, dust and soot that rose up over the city.

And then everybody got in their cars and drove away.  (Not on the new bridge, it was closed, just in case...) We did lose cell phone, internet, and 911 service for the rest of Sunday, so I could not write my interim iris blog post as I had intended.  

Instead, I decided to paint a picture... I painted fast, finishing in just four hours.  I did not take pictures as I went.  I have never consciously painted anything specifically to express a feeling, but this time I did.  This was pretty much how I saw it.

I just had to do something to acknowledge that old bridge.  My family and I had crossed over it so many times, in both fair weather and foul.  We drove Duncan over it the first time he came home, and it was the first and last landmark on almost every family vacation. 

Whenever we crossed over the bridge when the boys were little, we had played a silly game with them.  I would point out the car window on the left (if that was the side that Kiefer was on) and say in a loud voice, "Oh, look! There's Kiefer's Lake!"  And then I would aim my finger out the other side, exclaiming, "and there's Duncan's lake!" They would proudly look out their own car window at each of their own separate but perfectly equal lakes, and we would all say in a chorus: "The lakes,  the bridge, the BOYS!" 

And that is why I had to paint it.  I had to acknowledge not just the passing  of the bridge, but also all that had passed over it, as well.

Irises on Friday.  Thanks for reading.

P.S. Vincent painted bridges, too.  I don't know if he felt anything about them or got to see any of them get blown up.