The Delaware River bridge's wooden-plank deck was replaced with a steel open-grate deck in 1949. Although the superstructure is 20th century, that bridge sits upon the five original stone piers from the 1840s. The traveling space is only 16.5 feet wide, which makes it a tight squeeze for anything bigger than a car. In contrast, the Milford bridge is a luxurious 20 feet wide.
During my first months in Frenchtown in 1977, on Wednesday evenings after the Delaware Valley News had been put to bed, it was my practice to climb down onto the flat top of the middle pier of the Frenchtown bridge and chew tobacco (ugh! I know) while reading a tattered copy of Davy Crockett's autobiography. Every so often a car would go by just 8 feet away on the bridge or a fish would splash in the water below, and there I'd hide, reading and spitting. Although the scent of the river is of mud and fish, it was aromatherapy for me then, and it still is. When it got dark, I'd light a candle and read on.
One night a ragged teenager plopped down on the abutment beside me and said, “You're about to have company.” Out the five abutments, I'd chosen the “party pier” and in a minute there were a half-dozen teenagers, two six-packs of Genesee beer and a bag of marijuana all crowding my little space. I drank some of their beer and even gave out a few sticky leaves of tobacco. One kid ate it up like it was lettuce, and then puked over the side. After I admitted that I worked at the newspaper, one of the young river rats said, “You ran a story about my brother.”
“Oh?” I said, hoping his brother had made the dean's list or completed Army boot camp. No, the headline had been “Plea-bargaining burglar admits to 30 crimes.” Before too long I left, partly because their underage talk of sex and drugs was unpleasant to me, and partly to avoid the trouble that comes along with bad company. (I'd be writing about these boys in the newspaper.)
An unusual incident played itself out on the bridge one dark evening on Nov. 28, 1977. I'm only going to use the protagonist's first name.
Ernest placed a call to the Frenchtown police from the pay phone in front of Jack's Pizza on Bridge Street stating that a middle-aged man was walking back and forth across the bridge and appeared to be contemplating suicide.
Special Officer Mike Kish, a Milford phys-ed teacher by day, met Ernest on Bridge Street. He decided to approach the bridge in Ernest's car so the man on the bridge would not be alarmed by a police car. Ernest drove all the way across the bridge, but they saw no one. About two-thirds of the way back, Ernest stopped the vehicle, threw his wallet at Kish, and jumped out of the car, shouting to Kish to call his brother Carl.
Ernest climbed up on the railing, with Kish in pursuit. The cop managed to grab his belt as he went over the side. The man was too heavy, however, and he fell into the cold, inky water below. Kish told him to swim ashore, which he did. At first Kish had difficulty finding Ernest, until the troubled man stood up and yelled, “I'm over here!” He was taken to Hunterdon Medical Center for evaluation.
Historical note: Kish would be the last policeman of my acquaintance to still carry a revolver; he did not trust semi-automatics.
Excerpt from "Rick's Frenchtown Encyclopedia"
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