Isn’t she beautiful?
This photograph—one of the first color ones in my family collection—has lived in every house I’ve ever owned.
This is the drawbridge at Osterville, Massachusetts. I think it connected the points of land between the North and West Bays in Osterville Harbor, but I’m not so sure of that.
My father, the engineer in charge, was working on this bridge in October of 1946 when he received word I had been born: He drove to Boston to meet me, then came back a couple of days later to finish up the bridge.
It’s been known as “Deb’s Bridge” in my family ever since!
The last time I saw that bridge was in the very early 1960s when I was sailing with my family on the Trident; I was about fifteen years old. I stood on the bow with the horn and called the approach for the bridge keeper – I remember his singular response—a conversation, of sorts; an agreement between us—and then the slow, lovely ascent of the draw.
We passed through; I made my way to the stern and watched the descent from there.
My father’s bridge, I thought.
I’d like to think it’s still there…