The John Gorrie Bridge

One day the old man told me about how they used to make ice before there were refrigerators.  He told me about how metal blocks filled with fresh water would be dipped into a larger container of brine water that was cooled by a large machine.  He went into detail about how pistons on the machine fired.  He also taught me what brine water is...

...The pistons worked like this:  a small amount of fuel would be injected into a small container or capillary within the engine.  The piston, a metal cylinder, would slowly rise and compress the fuel until the pressure was great enough to create enough heat to ignite the fuel.  The fuel would then explode and the piston would fire...Brine water is essentially salt water.  It freezes at a much lower temperature than fresh water... 

...The large containers filled with fresh water were then dropped in a larger container of brine water using a pulley system of some kind.  The brine water was cooled to less than 32 degrees by the machine. The pistons would fire and run the machine.  After some time, the fresh water became ice.  The fresh ice in the container would be turned upside down and warm water would be poured over the top to allow the ice to slide out. This is how I learned about how ice used to be made and how fire can be used to make ice.

He also told me that the the bridge that crosses Apalachicola bay was named after John Gorrie, the man who invented the machine that created the ice. The John Gorrie bridge is one of the bridges that has always carried me to freedom.  I don't have to explain what this bridge is to my family.  They know the bridge very well. It has carried us all to freedom many times.  If you weren't in my family and you were to ask about this bridge, I would have to tell you that it is made of fire and ice. I would have to tell you that it crosses the bay that is fed by the river where my granddaddy used to eat oysters and that I am very sure that he crossed it when he died.

Old Dog Again

Once he told me of his grandfather,

a victim of the days when intellect was hidden sometimes,

by masks and pointy caps and shotguns.

and there they marched behind the blinds,

with windows closed, covered and exposed,

lost out in the woods, with leaves hanging from the trees,

all fallen in the fall, and in the winter left to freeze,

something discarded and forgotten, way out in the breeze,

decaying and swaying, a forest in the seas.

all of the confusion of war and loss and hate

passed down by faith and famine and fate,

some pathetic mixture of culture and genetics,

a symptom of politics and phonetics,

we're all so lost and following all we've found

and his ol' grandfather's dog followed him all over town.

granddaddy told me of his grandfather's dog,

following him in his sheets and all the fog,

in everything he tried to conceal,

in everything that was violent and real,

in all of the days and the choices of all the seasons,

sometimes those without a voice are the voice of reason...

Old Dog

Granddaddy told be of his grandfather, who was a member of the ku klux klan.

his grandfather suited up every evening and took his pride and all he had learned

to discuss all of his hatred for colors and his black and white views

and to burn all of the things he was told to believe in,

like crosses and swastikas...

but he had one problem...he had a dog.

and all dogs see different colors than we do...

and they don't seem to be so offended by them...

and the dog always followed him around in his white skin

and even in his white suit and cap,

and damnit the dog was always so obvious and naked.

so very much the opposite of what his grandfather intended to accomplish.

but sometimes love is more powerful than hate.

and so everyone always knew about his grandfather,

and his all of his silly rantings and rally's...