Seemed like mud
was slowly creeping into everything that Spring.
While in the distance
flattened, yellow wintergrass
held just a hint of green,
underfoot
was slick with spongy, clinging mud.
People left tracks behind them;
water oozing into heel-marks
like a snoopy neighbor into my kitchen.

Downstream a ways...
‘bout where that old granddaddy bass was always hiding
in the deep shadows, just shy of the falls,
that's where the covered bridge crossed the river.
It was new in my granddad's day.
Built strong and solid,
built to last,
with nary a nail, mind you...
But all wooden pegs pounded into that Vermont oak.
Came through the great storm of ‘09
with nary a loose board nor shingle.
Folks here ‘bouts said that old bridge would be here
when we was all long dead and gone.
Oh, there was another bridge,
nothing of consequence though,
just a new-fangled concrete and iron contraption
built to accommodate those new motor cars
we had coming through
once the road was extended to Manchester.
Looked right sturdy enough and all,
but most of us, well,
we still preferred to use the covered bridge.

That particular morning dawned about the same as it had
for the past week or so,
the grey clouds pressing down
like an unsettled argument.

The Battenkil swollen with snowmelt,
had flooded out
most of the acreage west of town
over towards New York state.
We spent the early hours that Sunday morning
over to Mrs. Mulligan's for coffee.
She only had one boarder in for the night,
a reporter fellow up from Bennington
to write a story about young George Plimpton
taking over the Equinox from his Pa.
Don't know why that young man didn't stay there,
less he was mindful
of saving a penny or two.
Course, the food was much better at Kate Mulligan's,
there is that.
Guess he was sleeping in
being as he was city folk and all,
at any rate we didn't see hide nor hair of him that morning at all.

Most near half the town was in
Old St. John's Episcopal Church that Sunday.
I remember Rev'rend Morrow's sermon
like it was yesterday. . .
He'd gone on at great length, as usual,
about staying close to the Almighty
in the face of the many changes
that seemed to be tearing at the old ways.
My thoughts wandered during that long, final hymn,
never was much for singing,
and well, those long oaken benches,
so finely waxed and polished by the Ladies Guild Society every Saturday,
were starting to feel mighty hard.
There was Mrs. Wentlock...
Complete with her pink, floppy excuse for a hat
that never missed a service come rain, snow or indigestion.
Couple of rows beyond her, Old Mr. Dodge,
he of the powerful voice, rheumatism and nagging wife,
looked down at her
and smiled in between verses.

Across the aisle,
Michael and Sarah Watlington,
the newcomers and newly wed,
not quite accepted
yet.
We didn't get too many strangers moving in.
Folks drove by on the new road, tourists
on their way to Mt. Bromley
or up to visit and stay at the Equinox
up on the hill.
And some came to see the original and still thriving
L.L. Bean factory,
but they came and visited a while and left.
Nope, here in town,
children grew older, married and moved away;
we lost the Almhurst brothers in the Great War
along with Edward Dodge and Jerry Freemont,
the old folk grew older still ‘till they died. . .
Town never did seem to change much.

The double oaken doors opened
after the service
and people spilled like beans into the churchyard.
No one lingered that day as they usually did
comparing new calves, young ‘uns or the price of soybeans.
Most folks just took one look at the sky
and scurried for their wagons.
Shafts of lightning
tore through the jagged clouds
and thunder reverberated
like one of Rev'rend Morrow's sermons.
The sky opened,
rain pouring down like a split sack of salt.
Some headed back into the church,
while others ran for the shelter of the bridge.

The clamor of wind and water
all but drowned out the thunder that grew louder still.
Then, as if it were trying to shrug off the storm,
the bridge shuddered,
shivered.

People ran panicked
grabbing children, horses, each other.
The ground ‘neath the near end
gave way
in a slide of rocks and mud.
The old timbers screeched
wood against wood
as the force of the water
took our bridge down the river.

Those on the shore just stood there;
caught in a flash of lightning.
Then someone shouted. . .
Pointed.
In the midst of the swirling bits of wood and debris
was a body being swept towards the falls.
Newcomer Michael kicked off his boots
and dove into the muddy water.
Fighting the Battenkill with every stroke,
Michael reached the man, grabbed his slicker
and dragged the unconscious man to shore.
Ayuh, poor old Mr. Dodge, I thought,
but no, his body shook
and he set to coughing up half the river.
Shouts from downstream:
Mrs. Dodge had been swept over the falls.
Jubilation over the one rescue
faded into silence.
Mrs. Wentworth, arms around three crying children,
grey hair streaming down her shoulders,
lifted her hatless head and walked the children over to their mother.
Sarah Watlington draped a blanket around her husband
and wiped his hair back from his eyes,
before resting her head on his shoulder.
Some folks headed back into the church
never noticing Rev'rend Morrow sitting all by himself
on a rock in the churchyard, head in his hands, his shoulders shaking.
Later that afternoon
over a mug of ‘medicinal' coffee,
I thought back to the empty raw place
where the bridge used to be;
had always been.
A part of our town,
indeed,
a part of our lives had been swept away.
A good many years back
I'd even toyed with the notion
of marrying Emma Dodge,
(Hathaway back then)
myself.
Funny though,
Rev'rend Morrow picking today
to sermonize on change.
Course,
you never know
what's going to happen
one day to the next.

Well, at least we have the new bridge
I thought,
drifting off to sleep in front of the fire. . .
Elsewise....
how'd we get ‘cross the river?


Robin Berndt
January 1997