A reader who grew up in this area recently posted a comment, remembering her thrill as a child crossing the long bridge across the Mississippi.  My first crossing of the great river is indelibly stamped in my own memory and has floated to the surface of my mind many times on this journey. I was seven years old and in the back seat of my family’s blue and white DeSoto. I can hear the rattle of the iron bridge and smell the earthy scent of the river. I can feel again how it stopped my heart and filled me with wonder and questions. I can hear my Dad teaching me to spell its name with the little singsong chant, “M….i….crooked letter…..crooked letter…..i…crooked letter…crooked letter…i…humpback…humpback….i”.  In all the years since then, that chant still plays in my mind whenever I approach a bridge across the Mississippi. And the thrill is not even the tiniest bit diminished. In fact, it might be greater.