Our Colossus

Maybe it’s due to the fragility of our aging infrastructure made apparent by the tragic demise of the Francis Scott Key Bridge, or maybe it’s just some misplaced molecule wandering through my brain that is reminding me to learn more about the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, but whatever the reason, I’ve woken the last few mornings thinking about the Colossus of Rhodes. Which, of course, leads me to consider Salvador Dali’s surreal depiction of that ancient monument, which in turn, steers me in the direction of Emma Lazarus’ poem, “The New Colossus,” which, as we all know, is inscribed upon the Statue of Liberty… I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to burden you with the strange meanderings of my own ancient grey matter. Welcome to my world.

I think what’s really going on up there in my brain is that I’m still trying to come to terms with my own bifurcated relationship with the Eastern and Western Shores of the Chesapeake Bay. For more than twelve years now, we (Herself and I) have used the the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, née the William Preston Lane, Jr. Memorial Bridge, as our own personal colossus, the monumental structure that connects us to our lives on both sides of the bay. I readily admit that there is nothing remotely colossal about our lives here and there, except perhaps that which binds us to two places at the same time. On the western side of the bay, there are children and grandchildren, a colossal group of friends, houses to sell (her), and students to counsel (me). Over here on the Eastern Shore, there is another colossal group of friends, an historic home with a welcoming front porch to maintain, and a lifestyle that soothes our separate souls. Neither is more important than the other; I’m beginning to believe that they can peacefully coexist.

That said, we drive across the Bay Bridge and deal with the Washington Beltway at our own peril. We time our journeys to avoid traffic jams as best we can. We drive carefully; while crossing the bridge, I keep my focus on the lanes ahead while she counts the giant container ships at anchor out in the bay because one of the grandkids always needs to know that number. (Why? Because.) On the Beltway, we each hold our breath amid the big rigs and speeding cars which seem, to me at least, to go a lot faster than they used to before NASCAR wormed its way into our collective consciousness. Sigh; yet another apparent reason why I should stay in the curmudgeon lane while I’m driving.

But back to the island of Rhodes and its Colossus : construction of the wondrous monument began in 292 B.C.E. It stood more than one-hundred feet high (approximately the same height as the Statue of Liberty) near the entrance to Rhodes’ harbor. Dedicated to Helios, Greek god of the sun, it was constructed to celebrate the successful defense of the city from an invading Macedonian army. However, remarkable as it was, the giant statue didn’t last long. The Colossus collapsed during an earthquake in 226 B.C.E., and although parts of it were preserved, it was never rebuilt because the Oracle of Delphi advised against it. Why? Your guess is as good as mine, but then Oracles know things the rest of us do not.

Anyway, colossi may rise and fall, bridges may collapse, but life goes on. Kudos to those working to repair and rebuild the Francis Scott key Bridge, and to those who keep the lanes open and moving on that other colossus, the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. You make it possible for us to live our best lives on both shores of the bay.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine.

His debut novel, “This Salted Soil,” and a delightful children’s book, “The Ballad of Poochie McVay,” are available on Amazon. His new novel, “The Tales of Bismuth,” is coming soon…