I decided to claim this bridge as my own. It’s a rickety contraption deep in the mountains along a dead-end dirt road, and not the kind of bridge that gets a name, so I figure it’s okay. Built entirely of wood, including the piers, and now covered extensively with moss, it really is quite unique and I’ve developed a real affinity for this bridge and the surrounding area.
I must have driven by this place a hundred times on my way to more “scenic” fare, and every time it caught my eye. At some point I realized I had to paint it. Then, for a while, I tried to work up the courage to ask permission to paint on the property. Eventually that effort failed. There are two large spotlights trained on the approach to the stairs which give the unmistakable impression that visitors are neither expected nor wanted. That is a judgment I made with incomplete information; but I figure maybe sometimes in the interest of self-preservation it’s okay to judge a book by its cover. Despite the apparent differences in lifestyle between us, as I painted the scene I began to pick out things that spoke to a greater commonality: a Weber grill, a lawnmower, a workbench with some kind of woodworking project in progress, a failed attempt at a garden, pride in America. These are things many of us can relate to and I realized a growing appreciation of their daily pleasures, triumphs and no doubt struggles, as witnessed by the artifacts spread across their lawn.