Michigan Reading Journal Volume 42 Issue 1 Article 9 October 2009 The Bridges of My Life Katherine Paterson Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.gvsu.edu/mrj Recommended Citation Paterson, Katherine (2009) "The Bridges of My Life," Michigan Reading Journal: Vol. 42 : Iss. 1 , Article 9. Available at: https://scholarworks.gvsu.edu/mrj/vol42/iss1/9 This Other is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks@GVSU. It has been accepted for inclusion in Michigan Reading Journal by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks@GVSU. For more information, please contact [email protected]. THE BRIDGES OF MY LIFE* The summer our son David turned three years old, he fell in love with bridges. The first of July found us driving from Takoma Park, Maryland to Silver Bay, New York, and there were lots of bridges along the way. At the end of our vacation, we had decided to stop by and visit relatives on Long Island to break the long trip back to Maryland, and again there were plenty of bridges, until finally way past everyone's bedtime, we crossed over to Long Island and my husband had four tired children, a harassed wife, a nervous dog, and the Long Island Expressway to deal with. "When is the next bridge, Mom?" David asked. "There aren't any more bridges, sweetheart," I answered. "We're nearly at Uncle Art and Aunt Betty's now." He began to cry. "Just one more bridge, please, Mom, just one more bridge." There was no way I could convince him that there were no more bridges on the route-that I was not just being contrary. After all a three year old still believes that a parent has the power to produce any­ thing his heart desires. But I couldn't convince him, and for the last few miles that night, he was in tears, begging me for just one more bridge. We all tumbled into bed, exhausted. I was still thinking about David-how he somehow thought I could conjure up a bridge and throw it up in the path of our car whenever I chose. When would he learn that I was an ordinary human being, lacking magical powers? It was then that I remembered. Early the next day I could give him a bridge, and not just any old bridge. The next day I could give him the Verrazano Bridge. Katherine Paterson I could hardly wait. (Photo © Samantha Loomis Paterson) Of course, when I think of bridges I think of this old When our now fifteen-year-old granddaughter was a family story of David and his love of bridges. I did toddler, John and I went out to visit. Our daughter not dream when David was three that six years later Lin's sister-in-law entertained us all at their newly I would write him a book about a bridge. Indeed, acquired home. We had a grand tour of the old when David was three, my first novel was just farmhouse which was still in the process of renova­ beginning to make the rounds of publishing houses. tion and then we took a walk over the several acres It would be four more years before it was in print. adjoining. I was holding my two year old grand­ No doubt I would have been much more successful daughter by the hand, talking to other family adults, as a writer if I'd caught on earlier to the fact that when suddenly I felt her tug loose. I looked up and bridges are a literary goldmine. The bridge book the sight made me grab Margaret and quickly swing should have come first-I would have been saved so her up on my hip. We had come to a rocky gorge six many years of rejections, if only I'd thought to name or eight feet deep. With Margaret still struggling to it something like-well, say, The Bridges of Mont­ get down I looked to see the wreckage of a concrete gomery County, or something close to that. Well, too bridge. A severe storm earlier in the summer had late. But not too late to think about my work and filled the gorge with rushing water, strong enough to yours in the imagery that bridges provide. take out a reinforced concrete bridge. There was no longer any way to cross to the rest of the property. Margaret, like any lively two year old, was fasci­ nated by the chasm and kept trying to wiggle out of *© 2009 Katherine Paterson my grasp, trying to get over to the edge to look down. Reprinted with the author's permission 46 MICHIGAN READING JOURNAL PATERSON I kept thinking about that gorge. How would Larry have been left to do the job. Like it or not, we are the and Carol be able to afford a new bridge? Who would bridge builders. build it? And would a new bridge be adequate for the I was speaking in a junior high not far from where next storm or the next? my parents had lived for nearly thirty years. I had In the years since that day I've talked to teachers already had a telephone conversation with those in from all over our country as well as teachers of the charge of the visit and had explained to them very island nations of the South Pacific, Asia, Europe, carefully that I abhored the celebrity madness of our Canada, Latin America and Africa. And all of us society which makes children think they are nobody who care about the education of the young seem to unless they appear on television or their picture is in be standing on the edge of a deep gorge where the the newspaper. "I don't want to feed into that sick­ bridges have either washed out or seem due to go in ness," I said. "So I'm happy to come on the condition the next big storm. Those bridges teachers used to that I speak with a small group of students, no more count on-family backing, community respect, and than a classroom-sized number-students who have political support-don't seem to be there any longer. read my books and want to talk about them. I want It's not simply that the money to build has disap­ to come as a person who loves books to talk with peared, the vision of what society owes its children other people who love them too. They don't have to seems to have washed away as well. "We don't love my books particularly, just be interested enough have any more money for education!" the harrassed in them to want to talk about them. I don't come to taxpayers cry. ''You don't need any more money," the prove to an auditorium full of wiggling kids that I am know-everything politician declares. "The problem a real live person. They'll be expecting a celebrity, lies with you. It doesn't take money to cross this and let's face it, when they see me, they'll be sorely chasm. It takes better teachers. Jump. That's what disappointed." I thought everything was set, and it old lady Whitsit who taught me in the fifth grade wasn't until I was in the car on the way would have done. Any of you who can't make the leap to the school that the driver said, "Oh, by the way, shouldn't be in education in the first place." In the we weren't able to arrange things just the way you recent debate over the stimulus package there were asked. We had planned for you to speak only to the politicians who truly seemed to believe that money gifted and talented group which would be about fifty for education was pork. fifth, sixth, and seventh graders. But," she was very And so year after year educators stand at the edge apologetic, "the special education teacher heard you of the precipice, not only unable to cross over, but were coming and she simply bullied the librarian trying desperately to keep the children in their care into letting her bring her entire class to your presen­ from falling to the rocks. "We're not magicians!" I tation." hear teachers protesting. "How do you expect us to So there I was with seventy-some fifth, sixth, and teach more and more with less and less?" "These are seventh graders to enthrall. Much to my relief, your children, too. Don't you care whether they make things seemed to go all right. Most of the ques­ it across or not?" tions were of the ordinary-How many books have There are plenty of those who come forward to tell you written? and How long does it take to write a us how the bridge should be built. The trouble is book?-variety. But there was one boy in a hooded their ideas of what makes an adequate bridge are red sweat shirt sitting several feet away from every­ likely to be quite different from your own. And even one else who was giving extraordinary attention to though they know exactly how it ought to be done, everything I said. they aren't usually willing to exert any effort or He hung around until after the children had been money into making it happen. No, building bridges dismissed and then siddled up to me. "Who is Gilly?" for children has not been for many years a respected he asked.