Roseman Covered Bridge
Built in 1883 by Benton Jones, it is 107 feet in length and sits in its original location. Roseman was renovated in 1992 at a cost of $152,515. In Robert James Waller's novel The Bridges of Madison County and the movie of the same name, Roseman is the bridge Robert Kincaid seeks when he stops at Francesca Johnson's for directions; it is also where Francesca leaves her note inviting him to dinner.
Monday, September 14, 2009
White moths are on the wing.
The truck in the rain...
As is not uncommon in life, timing is not a GREAT thing.
She starts to cry, she can't tell him why and losing interest quickly he turns up the radio. Pulling into the gas station she is glad of the opportunity to re-group her thoughts and compose herself. Then in pulls the omni-present 'truck in the rain' (please note I am not talking about myself in the third person... just in case ya was thinking I had a lover) -- The truck, driven by someone else might give it an excuse to take her away. Was the whole affair an excuse for her to leave, she must have felt the homesickness all along. Now just leaving tempts her... opening up to a stranger. (OK, she did a lillte bit more than open up) but stolen in the romance of it all is escape.
An evening out is an escape. A vacation... a day at the beach is something anyone can understand. But, can you understand that given the chance to stay at the beach... would you?
She starts to cry, she can't tell him why and losing interest quickly he turns up the radio. Pulling into the gas station she is glad of the opportunity to re-group her thoughts and compose herself. Then in pulls the omni-present 'truck in the rain' (please note I am not talking about myself in the third person... just in case ya was thinking I had a lover) -- The truck, driven by someone else might give it an excuse to take her away. Was the whole affair an excuse for her to leave, she must have felt the homesickness all along. Now just leaving tempts her... opening up to a stranger. (OK, she did a lillte bit more than open up) but stolen in the romance of it all is escape.
An evening out is an escape. A vacation... a day at the beach is something anyone can understand. But, can you understand that given the chance to stay at the beach... would you?
The movie that makes me cry.
Now, not sure how deep one should be in a 'blog', but feeling like sharing, so I will.
The Bridges of Madison County... as movies go it is fair to call it a chick flick, but to me it is hauntingly sad. Her kitchen's emptiness and the dusty road that leads to it are symbolic of a life lived far from home. The road is me at the mercy of who may travel it into my life. The kitchen is my heart. Sometimes filled with children, but like wallpaper and pretty curtains fade, the window can steal your eyes away in an instant, your gaze wandering over lanscapes you've studied for many years, unchanging.
A friend that doesn't know you yet may come down that road, and you search their stories so that you can feel like you were with them. You can picture the moonlight and all the glorious sunrises, but never feel the wind. Never hear the sounds. Never know how it felt.
In solitude there is comfort that you don't have to explain how or why you can be so sad, but yet so happy in your life. The multitude of beatiful blessings that can only be counted in as many moments as there are in a day, remain unmatched by the number of times your heart aches just a little more.
Places that have never been seen by anyone but you are the memories tied to places that only someone with the same memories could understand. These heartstrings suffer in a death that is unendingly mourned.
When it is time for her lover to leave she cries and the anger comes out. That anger is ever present in all things that try to tempt me, tease me into letting it rise. The only emotional dalliance that justifies itself to me is the feeling of that long dusty road stretched out in mile after mile of impossible desperation. Impossible for anyone to find me, impossible for me to tell them how.
The Bridges of Madison County... as movies go it is fair to call it a chick flick, but to me it is hauntingly sad. Her kitchen's emptiness and the dusty road that leads to it are symbolic of a life lived far from home. The road is me at the mercy of who may travel it into my life. The kitchen is my heart. Sometimes filled with children, but like wallpaper and pretty curtains fade, the window can steal your eyes away in an instant, your gaze wandering over lanscapes you've studied for many years, unchanging.
A friend that doesn't know you yet may come down that road, and you search their stories so that you can feel like you were with them. You can picture the moonlight and all the glorious sunrises, but never feel the wind. Never hear the sounds. Never know how it felt.
In solitude there is comfort that you don't have to explain how or why you can be so sad, but yet so happy in your life. The multitude of beatiful blessings that can only be counted in as many moments as there are in a day, remain unmatched by the number of times your heart aches just a little more.
Places that have never been seen by anyone but you are the memories tied to places that only someone with the same memories could understand. These heartstrings suffer in a death that is unendingly mourned.
When it is time for her lover to leave she cries and the anger comes out. That anger is ever present in all things that try to tempt me, tease me into letting it rise. The only emotional dalliance that justifies itself to me is the feeling of that long dusty road stretched out in mile after mile of impossible desperation. Impossible for anyone to find me, impossible for me to tell them how.
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