photography and musings from a Midwesterner
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Once, a half century ago, the home was proudly tucked and painted… there was a green trellis trailing with wisteria vines and a long bench covered with potted plants… there was a rocking chair for long rests during the hot humid afternoons and a calico cat snoozing in a sunny circle on the gray porch planks. There were voices calling through the doors – yoo-hoos and howdy-dos.
A half century ago.
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I have traveled across this bridge my entire life. Here, the bluff city of Quincy, Illinois is attached by steel girders and pavement to Missouri. I have traveled across this bridge to visit relatives in Hannibal and Palmyra, to take trips to St. Louis for shopping and Cardinals’ baseball games, to buy gasoline (Missouri’s gas tax is enough less than Illinois’ to make the trip financially worthwhile) and to catch the Amtrak in West Quincy when I went to college in Chicago.
Now I cross it when I travel from my home to my hometown. (I live in Wisconsin, but believe me, it is faster to travel Wisconsin-Iowa-Missouri-Illinois, than it is to head due south through Illinois.) Last weekend I crossed this bridge once again. I had never before taken notice of the brilliant blue of the bridge structure contrasting with the road, nor the red brick buildings climbing the bluffs in the distance. But then, never before had I traveled the country’s roads with a camera resting by my side.
Why is it I see so much more by adding a camera into the formula?
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