BRIDGE WALK




The Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco is in my blood.  My mother, the daughter of Irish immigrants, walked across it with her aunt May when it was dedicated on May 27, 1937.  She was 18. I was born north of the bridge, and spent my infancy and youth both north and south of it. I spent most of my brief army career stationed at the Presidio of San Francisco, proximate to the bridge.

I visited San Francisco a few years ago, and it was the perfect afternoon to walk across the bridge.  There was just enough fog to make it typical, and yet it was fairly warm with little wind.  In fact, I remember getting my forehead moderately sunburned.

Lots of people enjoyed the bridge that day.

It was clear enough for a good view of the San Francisco skyline and the Bay Bridge. The dome (center right) is the Palace of Fine Arts.

One of my earliest memories is looking up at the towers with my three brothers from the backseat of my father's car.

I talked to this bridge painter for a little while.  He was a big man--soft spoken and reticent.  His face brightened when I mentioned that I had heard that many Native Americans were bridge painters.  It turns out that he was part Mohawk, I think.