I started thinking about all of the bridges that I have crossed in my 60 years on this planet. One doesn't necessarily think of how bridges affect everyday life, but they do. They provide access to places that would otherwise be unreachable. They cut drive time, provide a way to a farm field or a path to grandma's house.

One of the favorite bridges of my youth we called the Melbourne Bridge. It is located two or three miles northeast of my hometown of Hinton, Iowa. It sits astride the Floyd River, which derived its name from the only one of Lewis and Clark's party to perish on their "Journey of Discovery," Sergeant Floyd.

The Melbourne Bridge was a rusted steel structure that would accommodate side-by-side Model Ts in its early days, but wider cars and trucks needed to wait for one or the other to cross before wedging their way across the thick wooden planks on the bridge's deck. The bridge would rattle and shake no matter what the size of vehicle crossing to the other side of the Floyd.

I was especially attached to the Melbourne Bridge in regard to my favorite pastime, fishing. As a young boy, I remember my dad and his farmer, neighbor friends planning fishing trips for suckers and carp and catfish. One of their favorite fishing holes was just north of the Melbourne Bridge. They would sit at our kitchen table, drinking coffee, planning a night fishing foray to the Floyd River. Normally, they would go after dark and return with gunny sacks full of slithering suckers.

When I was old enough to hold a cane pole, my granddad and dad took me to the Melbourne Bridge and let me loose on the muddy banks of the river below. I waded through stinging nettles, cockleburs, sunflowers and hemp to reach the riverbank under the old bridge. There was a hole near one of the pillars of the bridge and out of that hole I yanked more bullheads and carp than I can count. And, the old bridge shaded me from the hot Iowa summer sun.

I drove by the Melbourne Bridge last year when my family and I returned for a reunion. The bridge still stands, but it seems exceedingly smaller than the "giant" bridge I remember as a kid. Back then, the river was rimmed by large cottonwood trees with ash and box elder also in the mix. Now most of the trees have been removed, no doubt to get in an extra acre of corn. The old bridge seems somehow lonely sitting out there all by itself with no shade to be had. I felt a pang of remorse as I passed by on Highway 75. Kind of like seeing an old friend who had aged more than he should have.

There were many other bridges that came to mind last week. The Big Sioux River bridge at River Sioux, the swinging bridge that straddled a deep gully at my Uncle Julius's farm. We would get in the middle of the bridge and sway it until we scared someone into running off. I remember the bridge near my Uncle Reed's farm where we dropped cherry bombs into the water below and watched for chubs to float to the surface. The bridge over the Missouri River in Sioux City, called the "Combination Bridge," was awesome in my sight. I remember the vibration caused by our car tires as we sped over the swirling Missouri heading south, just below. Danger wasn't too far below our floor boards and we always breathed a sigh of relief when we reached the Nebraska side or vise versa.

Funny what one thinks of when some catastrophic event happens. Old memories bubble to the surface. Last week I was thinking of bridges. The Melbourne Bridge is still standing.

See you next week. Okay?