I grew up on the outer fringe of a new suburb, our freshly-built ranch house abutting a gnarled apple orchard, a meadow of goldenrod and milkweed and Queen Anne’s Lace, a ravine that plunged down to a creek. As kids, we travelled in small groups: myself, Sheree, Renee, Timmy, and Mary Ellen. Sometimes we’d venture into the world beyond our neighborhood and walk down to the one-lane road that ran along the Schuylkill River.
About a mile down, we’d find what we were looking for—a concrete structure rooted just next to the river. Its massive columns rose to a highway, which began its launch across the river—and abruptly stopped, midair. I remember it fascinated me, this strange fragment of a former time, this monument of a daring hope left unfulfilled. We named it the Bridge to Nowhere.
