I am the proprietor of a small bridge near Vinland, a few miles southeast of Lawrence. My bridge spans a nameless ditch which winds into humble Coal Creek. From Coal Creek, the waters that pass beneath my bridge flow to the Wakarusa, thence to the Kaw, the Missouri and the mighty Mississippi. At the end of their journey, they spill into the Gulf of Mexico where they mingle with sharks and dolphins.

Bridges are by nature symbolic. They can stand for connection, cooperation, harmony, hope. They join opposing banks. They bring people together for commerce — or war. The “Bridge to Nowhere” exemplifies boondoggles. The “Bridge Over Troubled Water” embodies succor for someone in pain. The bridge in tarot stands for progress and transitions. In some religions, a rainbow is a bridge to paradise. The “Bridge of Sighs” was the last view of Venice that convicts saw before their imprisonment. A proverb advises us not to cross a bridge until we come to it. If we fail to follow that advice, that’s water under the bridge.

My lowly bridge doesn’t inspire lofty associations. But last spring it became entangled in a minor drama. Our neighborhood had gone from drought to deluge in a matter of weeks. Ponds that had been dry were overflowing. Roads were washed out. Herons stalked in flooded fields where crowds of frogs had hatched. One day, it occurred to me that I ought to have a look at my bridge.

Sure enough, disaster had struck. An unfinished repair project had left the planks of the bridge unattached. Water had risen at least 10 feet in the normally dry ditch and had become a raging torrent. The 100-pound, 2-inch-thick oak planks had been hurled downstream where they were strewn like match sticks along the ditch. It was a testimony to water’s potential for violent power.

Since then I’ve become intimately acquainted with my bridge. Whoever built it believed in doing things right and making them to last. The bridge must be 100 years old. It’s a marvel of sound engineering and solid construction. Planks were held in place by half-inch thick U-shaped rebars. Massive retaining walls were built to shore up the banks and prevent erosion. You could drive a school bus over that bridge and it would hold up. All this to permit the cultivation of a few flood-threatened acres. If I hadn’t messed with it, the bridge would have survived the flood intact.

Farming the small acreage was abandoned some time ago. The ground is now infested with spectacular growths of pokeweed. Soaring cottonwoods, hedge, locust and hackberry trees preside over the small domain, which has become a refuge for turkeys and deer. So swiftly does nature reclaim the domesticated plots of human beings. The planks have been recovered. The bridge no longer has a purpose, but it will be rebuilt. It deserves respect as a small monument to workmanship, as a reminder of nature’s sometimes hostile moods and of the bridge that each of us must eventually cross that leads to the other side.

— George Gurley, a resident of rural Baldwin City, writes a regular column for the Journal-World.