Die Brücke

So yes, there is a brand new bridge at Chez Sarge which The Missus Herself and I assembled and painted on Saturday, then emplaced over the pond on Monday. (Had to wait for the paint to dry, then it rained Sunday, so we didn't play outside at all.)

The old bridge was of metal and was badly rusted on one side. More air than metal really. So a new bridge was requested, ordered, assembled, painted, and emplaced. All in the space of a month.

Now for a real bridge (okay like a bridge over a river or something, our bridge is a real bridge, but it's a rather small bridge as bridges go), a month would be amazing. For our bridge it might leave one asking, "What took so long?"

Well, it was ordered on a Friday and arrived on a Monday. Yes, of course FedEx left it on the deck, in the rain, with no one home, no cover, nothing. Which destroyed the box and, more importantly, reduced the all important assembly instructions to a wad of tattered semi-goo.

Now the bridge material is cedar, so wetness wasn't an issue, tattered instructions on the other hand...

Well, suffice to say I managed to salvage enough of the instructions to actually assemble the bridge. (As the photo above would suggest.)

But in the meantime, twixt the ordering and the assembling etc., Mr. Diverticulitis paid a visit, then it was off to New Hampshire for Mothers Day, and before you know it, nearly a month had passed between concept and execution.

Hey, stuff happens.

Now I thought long and sort of hard about what to call this post, to wit -

1. The Bridge not on the River Kwai
2. Sur Le Pont d'Avignon
3. A Bridge Too Far
4. The Bridges of Bristol County
5. Building Bridges

The first I rejected due to the inevitable comparison of myself with the Alec Guinness character and The Missus Herself with the Sessue Hayakawa character. I built the bloody thing, she supervised. Not that I look like Alec Guinness nor that she is anywhere near as cruel as the commandant of the POW camp. I mean not even remotely. Besides, we didn't have anyone to play the William Holden character, you know, the guy who wants to blow up the bridge. (Thing cost me a pretty penny, not gonna let some Yank blow it up.)

The second was dismissed because it reminds me of a wee French ditty we were forced to warble as youngsters, something about people dancing on a bridge in France, at Avignon to be specific. Which sends me off on a Men Without Hats Safety Dance thing which is, trust me, not pretty. (I cannot sing to save my life, but it's okay, I can't dance either. With or without a hat.)

The third was, by far, my favorite. I could take my action figures (not dolls, damn it) and reenact the whole bridge at Arnhem thing, cursing Monty all the while. But then I realized that the love of my life would certainly put the kibosh on me playing with dolls reenacting battles using action figures in the back yard.

So, the fourth idea for a title. No, just no. Don't ask. I hate that movie.

And five just sounds so, blah, so New Age and hipster-like. No, just no.

So I just called the post "The Bridge." But in German as I know y'all love it when I throw foreign stuff at ya.

Anyhoo.

The bridge building itself taught me, or perhaps re-taught is more accurate, the concept that once one reaches a certain age, and after a very sedentary winter, engaging in any sort of odd physical activity requires that one stretch first. There are certain muscles I don't really use a lot, so they need to be coaxed into participating in said activity.

From the waist up, I feel fine, however, my thigh and butt muscles feel as thought I had my ass kicked over the weekend. From the waist down I feel like a 90 year old man, waist up, fifty-ish, give or take a decade.

For you see the bridge is a rather low affair, low to the ground that is. Assembling it required a lot of bending and maneuvering while in a bent over position. Yes, a work bench would have been just the thing and yes, I do have one. In the shed.

I should mention that Saturday was rather hot and steamy here in the 401. Working in the shed would qualify as cruel and unusual had it been used for punishment purposes, not to mention which that the work bench is crammed with The Missus Herself's gardening stuff. It's what she does, she gardens. You can see some of her work in the opening photo.

After the bridge was assembled, my better half asked me if I wanted to paint it that very day. I, drenched in sweat and strongly desiring a beverage made with hops and barley said, "No."

"Why not? It's supposed to rain tomorrow. I want to paint the bridge today."

'Twas then that I realized that the "Do you want to paint the bridge today?" wasn't really a question at all, rather it was a suggestion, a thinly veiled command, in other words, what she said was directive in nature. Part of me said flee, part said fight, what happened was I said "Okay, let's paint today."

So we did.

Did I bring out my sawhorses to place the bridge upon while painting so as to not have to bend over and maneuver awkwardly once again? No, I did not. I didn't remember that I had those until my better half indicated that it would nice to somehow get the bridge up off the ground so the paint would dry overnight and it wouldn't be resting in the wet grass on Sunday. It was only then that I remembered the sawhorses. I'm not exactly stupid, but I'm not exactly smart either. I learn, but it takes time, oh so much time...

I really need to exercise more. Not that I'll be building another bridge anytime soon, but when you need to stretch to walk to the kitchen, it might be time to get out from behind the desk and go walkabout a bit more often.

Hey, it could happen.

Why the gratuitous Phantom pr0n? Why not?
'Tis my bridge to the past...
(Source)