Imagine being someone who’s just doing a job or crossing on foot on a bridge from one side of a river to the other for a variety of reasons. Then, suddenly, the bridge collapses. And those on the bridge plunge to the abyss below.

Who were these people? Why were they there? What were their family lives like? Their pleasures, their griefs?

This isn’t about the Baltimore Bridge incident. But then again it might be.

Thornton Wilder’s novel, The Bridge at San Luis Rey was published in 1927 and won the Pulitzer Prize in 1928. According to Wikipedia, the novel “tells the story of several interrelated people who die in the collapse of an Inca rope bridge in Peru, and the events that lead up to their being on the bridge. A friar who witnesses the accident then goes about inquiring into the lives of the victims, seeking some sort of cosmic answer to the question of why each had to die.”

The six workers who were repairing potholes on the Francis Scott Key Bridge earlier this week surely had no inkling that their lives would end that night. Nor did anyone who knew them.

There will be profiles in the local publications and possibly, because of national interest in the incident, they’ll be featured in The New York Times. But if you want a philosophical approach to why such things happen, then consider reading Wilder’s book in the context of the Baltimore Bridge.

It’s Monday.

When I worked, I always loved Monday, although most people don’t. They think of it as the end of the weekend, the start of the work week with deadlines and whatever. I looked at it as the day to get acclimated to the office regime with four days ahead to accomplish what needed to be done. I never scheduled meetings or appointments on Monday if it was in my power. Instead I eased into the workload and then charged ahead the next four days.

I’ve been out of the work force more than ten years. Still, it’s Monday, so I’m shedding my vacation skin and returning to the list I made regarding things with deadlines. None of them is due today, in keeping with my philosophy. But the rest of the week’s calendar looks like a checkerboard with various obligations, commitments, and social plans logged in.

Come to think of it, Monday is part of the weekend for me.

I’m in low gear today and haven’t come up with a blog topic that suits me. Railing about the three voicemails I got from credit relief companies isn’t in line with being on vacation. Neither is complaining about the weather back home, which we’ll meet up close and personal in 48 hours. (It’s predicted to be around 37 degrees.)

So I’m reposting the very first blog I wrote, called “Gauging Voices,” on May 20, 2024.

Voices are like barometers. They indicate if everything is normal, if pressure is mounting, or if decline has settled in.

That’s how it is when you are the mother. You are always taking a temperature, checking a pulse, looking for signs of stress in your offspring — even when those offspring are in their thirties, as mine are. And because my sons live far away, I listen closely on the telephone for signs. It’s the only measure I have to go by. I know Keith will call on the weekend and bring me up to date. But I hope in the meantime, the storm passes and when we talk his voice is filled with warmth and sunshine.”

If there has been some cataclysmic event in the world this past week and a half, I am oblivious. Except for the Academy Awards, which I wouldn’t categorize as cataclysmic, I’m not on the cutting edge of current affairs. It feels liberating.

Here’s what I have learned, mostly by unintended osmosis.

Princess Katherine of Wales is under attack for not appearing in public, for supposedly doctoring a photo, and for being hush-hush about her surgical condition. King Charles is being lauded for his openness regarding his cancer diagnosis. But nobody seems to know what kind of cancer it is. How is that openness?

There were several state primaries held recently; but since the presumed nominees of both parties already have enough delegates to be chosen, what does it matter? In fact, why bother having the national conventions? Think of the money that would be saved, although I imagine the two host cities – Milwaukee and Chicago – would object because of the influx of tourist dollars.

The Supreme Court refused to take up some so-called important legal issue. Trump hasn’t been able to make bond. Russia held an election. There is an eclipse in early April. March Madness is upon us.

And Earl is eagerly awaiting the Notre Dame Women’s first game in the NCAA tournament this Saturday. In our world at the moment, this is the paramount event. Go Hannah!

At lunch yesterday, S commented on how boring the shopping, dining, and entertaining options are where we all live in southwestern Michigan. S and her husband, along with M, are snowbirds who live in the same condo complex up north as Earl and I when it gets too unbearably hot in Naples.

I hadn’t thought about it until that conversation, but S is right. Naples is filled with tons of restaurants, shopping venues, supermarkets, and entertainment from bingo to live music to you name it. The St. Joseph/Benton Harbor, MI area is home to Elks, FOP, and dive bar hangouts. Craft breweries too.

I checked the resident populations of each community to see if Naples qualified as a major city. It’s fulltime population hovers at around 19 thousand, while the St. Joe/BH population is around 17 thousand. Not that far off.

But there are extenuating circumstances. Naples, a tourist destination of long standing, is second home to some of the rich and famous. Seven billionaires live here. St. Joe/BH is working on being a tourist destination and second home to Chicago millionaires. There’s probably not a billionaire within miles.

Naples offers amazing supermarkets: Publix, Fresh Market, Seed to Table, Walmart. St. Joe/BH has Martin’s, Meijer, and Roger’s. I will say Roger’s has Boar’s Head deli meats, but that’s about as fancy as it gets.

The fast food chains – Arby’s, Burger King, KFC, McDonald’s, Wendy’s – are considered acceptable food options up north; not here. Instead, there are seafood, Italian and German restaurants to consider. St. Joe/BH has a good Italian restaurant, but enjoying the others requires a trip to Chicago.

Still, From Mother’s Day to Halloween, St. Joe/BH has advantages. The weather is replete with rain, sun, warmth, clouds. Nothing too extreme for an extended period of time. Bugs are not that unbearable. Sunsets are magnificent. Fruit and vegetable stands offer produce that was picked this morning for you to eat tonight. It might not be Naples, but it’s not that bad.

“To blog or not to blog, that is the question.”

Actually Hamlet didn’t express it exactly that way. Rather, he was questioning whether it’s better to live or die. But it’s a fair rendition of his soliloquy in many situations. Do I or do I not?

In my case, it’s whether to return to blogging after a fourteen-year run followed by a four year absence. At the beginning of the pandemic, I felt I’d pretty much said what I had to say about presidential elections, contemporary culture, and personal pet peeves.

But I’ve written a novel and would like to get it published without using my own funds. I’ve self-published twice already. While it was emotionally satisfying, it wasn’t rewarding in terms of a wide audience (although both books are available on Amazon) or a flush bank account.

I plan to query literary agents and anticipate a lot of rejection over the next few months. It’s part of the process because only about one percent of manuscripts submitted to the myriad of representatives gets picked up. That means 99 percent don’t. Quite possibly winning the lottery is easier.

My unpublished novel and my return to blogging are related. I have time to write regularly, and blogging helps keep my skills sharp. It’s also a way to build a readership for the novel, even though at this point I’m not willing to share much about it. If you like my work, please share it. If you don’t, share it anyway in the hope that someone you know will like it.

And that’s my 30 second commercial.