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michaelboyAlmost every weekday for nearly 25 years, I walked approximately a mile along the same set of sidewalks and across the Monogahela River to and from my car. In all, I crossed the Smithfield Bridge more than ten-thousand times. As much as something material can be a part of someone, that bridge became a substantial part of me.
The span is a double-lenticular truss design and was built in 1883. I have newer photos of
the bridge but this one was taken from a postcard back in 1909 (when Pittsburgh had no ”h” at the end of its name). To this day, it looks pretty much the same, except for a few adornment differences and a major change in the skyline behind it. In the years that I crossed it, I’ve read: love hopes scribbled along its railing, stickers of racial hate pasted on its trusses, poorly-drawn or sprayed graffiti on any accessible flat spot. I’ve seen the remnants of weekend parties left along the walk: broken bottles, sprays of vomit, condoms and even lacy underwear.
But most of all, I remember all the people: kids skittering across in fear with parents, skaters, business folk, art students, lovers, gang members, tourists and homeless people. There was also a stream of ”regulars” - but none had lasted for the entire time that I worked downtown. Without purpose or justifiable reason, I often wanted to stop and talk with some of them, especially those exchanging smiles, but I was shy -- and besides, we really we had shared little more than the commonality of the walk and the bridge.
I miss that bridge.
The span is a double-lenticular truss design and was built in 1883. I have newer photos of
the bridge but this one was taken from a postcard back in 1909 (when Pittsburgh had no ”h” at the end of its name). To this day, it looks pretty much the same, except for a few adornment differences and a major change in the skyline behind it. In the years that I crossed it, I’ve read: love hopes scribbled along its railing, stickers of racial hate pasted on its trusses, poorly-drawn or sprayed graffiti on any accessible flat spot. I’ve seen the remnants of weekend parties left along the walk: broken bottles, sprays of vomit, condoms and even lacy underwear.
But most of all, I remember all the people: kids skittering across in fear with parents, skaters, business folk, art students, lovers, gang members, tourists and homeless people. There was also a stream of ”regulars” - but none had lasted for the entire time that I worked downtown. Without purpose or justifiable reason, I often wanted to stop and talk with some of them, especially those exchanging smiles, but I was shy -- and besides, we really we had shared little more than the commonality of the walk and the bridge.
I miss that bridge.
