bridges, back home, trip part 1
Last Thursday, we piled into Bertha and headed North. After we were on the road a while, I recalled the location of the camera…back home on my desk.
At the juncture of routes 17 and 301 (this route we have discovered avoids clusters of traffic around Richmond and DC and a good chunk of I-95 and other traffic hazards) we usually make a pit stop and tank up at a place called Horne’s. Apparently they have started producing their own bottled water. All pics from here on out taken with a cell phone camera.
We crossed a lot of bridges, including a tenuous bridge I feel very trepidatious about while crossing the Potomac, even though its name is Nice. Click on its name for an example why, and read the description. It gives me chills every time I cross it, a handful of times per year.
DMB, not Dave Matthews Band, the other DMB
Here we are crossing the Delaware Memorial Bridge headed toward Jersey and the George Washington Bridge headed into NYC. When I was growing up, we trekked annually at minimum from Connecticut to visit my grandparents and extended families in Georgia and Florida. So now that I live in Virginia, I find myself making the opposite trip. Once when I was about 11 years old, our station wagon broke down in the middle of the DMB. I will never forget coasting in neutral to the Delaware side and the picnic on the side of the highway as my father walked to an emergency call box and we waited for a tow truck and the adventure that ensued from there, but that is another story for another blog, maybe, eventually. Needless to say, every time I cross the Delaware, or almost any other big bridge, I think of that day and pray.
For the record, I detest the traffic (and because of the fog, we couldn’t even distract ourselves by viewing Manhattan skyline) from North Jersey through Southern Connecticut to my parents’ house. Someone always needs to pee, and there’s no way to get over or stop or anything but grind your teeth and pray a car seat doesn’t get soaked. This time, it did. I was just thankful that it wasn’t mine. Poor Toots, she tried really hard to hold it for hours and hours. I swear that that traffic zone is always about half the time of the whole trip.
She’s going to hate me for putting that on the interwebs in a permanent way, when she finds and reads this at age 14-40, right?
Not sure I fully appreciated how nice it was to grow up here, but I did appreciate the trees to climb, the back yard hill to sled with the glacial erratic in the midst of the sled hill that all the neighborhood kids loved to jump then land in the pricker bushes just past it, I broke my arm going off it on a bike one time, too. Now I appreciate the free roaming around the neighborhood and well out of bounds of the 70s and early 80s by bike or on rollerskates, with dogs.
My nephew stopped over for dinner with us. Can’t believe he is 20 now.
I always thought there’s a resemblance between Mr. Cynic on the left and my nephew. For one, they are both skinny as all get out, but there’s something in the jawline, general placement of features. They share a smirk, too. My parents are camera shy these days and I wasn’t thinking a whole lot about taking pics without an actual camera. Most pics I took on the whole trip were pretty random and spontaneous and a bit nonsensical considering all the shots I should have taken.
Our trip timing prevented our seeing my brothers and the rest of their families. Biggest nephew has a new habit of eating dinner at Gaga and Papa’s house a couple of times a month or so, and playing poker with them after. So good to see him and hear him and Mr. Cynic connect on bands and stuff.
We washed Toots’s car seat, spent the night and headed further north to Boston and the Berkshires for loads of mayhem and adventure, which you will see in part two.