The Old Town Toll Bridge

The Toll Bridge

There’s just something about the 75-year-old Oldtown Toll Bridge in Green Spring, WV, which connects Green Spring, WV to Oldtown, MD.  Let me see if I can describe it in such a way that you can understand its character.

At age 42, my earliest memories of the toll bridge are that it is a HOT topic of discussion.  Yet, every year comes and goes, and that toll bridge remains, clearly aging right along with me!  I find it amusing to hear local people talk about it year in and year out...same subjects:  dangerous; expensive toll; drama with the new owner; drama with the state; flooded; laden with debris; and so forth.  It’s the same stories, year after year!  As a hometown girl who only comes home every so often, I have the privilege of seeing and feeling the romanticism in the whole thing.  For you see, this bridge represents more to me than just a way to get across the northern branch of the Potomac River.  It represents hours of stories; it represents laughing, sometimes crying; it represents being a daredevil; it represents solidarity in the community; it represents permanence; it represents comedy; it represents politics; well...it represents pretty much EVERYTHING!

So, as always, on this visit, I drag my family down for my ritual “toll bridge visit”.  

The drive there is exciting in and of itself.  I pass Grace’s Country store on the sharp curve in Springfield.  That store alone can be a heartfelt blog.  I pass Grandma and Grandpap’s old house, Uncle Jimmy’s, Great-Grandma and Great-Grandpap’s old driveway, Aunt Pearl’s, the house my family and I used to live in, my old totally charming Forest Glen United Methodist Church, a bevy of aunts’, uncles’ and cousins’ homes.  My heart warms with all of the memories---on this little country road that Mom and Dad drove me home on 42 years ago.  <sigh>.  We enter the town Green Spring, population 218 (give or take).  

We cross the railroad tracks and my heart skips a beat as we rumble across that old track.  The Toll Bridge is close now!  The country road narrows and meanders through old farm land with pastures of freshly mowed hay and tall bright green corn stalks with some blonde silk glistening in the sun.  Not there yet!  We have to go under the old one-lane tunnel built under the train tracks!  As we drive under it, the sounds are briefly muffled as I hold my breath hoping it doesn’t collapse.  That tunnel is OLD!  About a half-second later, we emerge on the other side safely, and now I know the toll bridge is real close!  We drive under a canopy of brilliant green trees and round the elbow curve to the right, and there it is, in all its glory: the TOLL BRIDGE!

We park and I hold back tears as I see it.  Sounds silly, but if you haven’t figured it out, I am pretty sentimental.  And when it comes to my home state and our landmarks, even more so.  

My camera is poised.  Do I do it?  Do I step onto the old boards?  Or will the toll booth attendant run out to me from the Maryland side and demand the $1.50 toll?  Heehee...I risk it.  I step onto the old boards.  It is like I am transported through time.  I start breathing frantically until I embrace the time travel.  I’m in the old Gran Torino blue wagon.  Dad’s driving, and the front tires roll over the old boards.  Clankety, clankety, bumpety, bumpety, clang, clangety, clump, clump, creeeeaaakkkk.  We keep moving forward.  Sounds like the boards are buckling and sagging down to the muddy Potomac waters.  Yet we keep going.  Ah--it is so musical!  Don’t dare turn the wheel!  Keep it straight lest you roll off the side!  I am hypnotized by the rhythmic sounds.  Please let the bridge hold together!  Please don’t let us fall into the raging Potomac!  (Heehee--for the most part, the Potomac isn’t raging---only during/after heavy rainstorms.)

And then the end of the bridge approaches, going over the gravelly shore.  We MADE it.  We are safe now!  As the tires roll onto solid pavement, my hearing muffles as the clangety clang clang echoes in my ears.  We drive up to the toll booth, and the hammered old tin cup comes out tied to a stick and Dad drops in 25 cents.  CLANK!  Dad grumbles under his breath about the cost.  We drive away as I stare longingly out the back of the station wagon at the beautiful toll bridge, and I cross my fingers that we’ll come home this way.

The plop of the water made by a fish brings me back to present day.  I step further out onto the old boards.  I hear the birds, I hear the river, I hear frogs, I hear more water plops as fish come to the surface.  I am so giddy to be walking on the old bridge.  The lady in the toll booth is not coming out, so I decide to walk all the way to the middle.  I figure I can outrun her back to West Virginia if needed.  I snap some photos and breathe in my West Virginia air.  I hear a car coming, and race back to the road.  My flip-flop gets caught between the boards, but I keep my balance.  I am beaming with a smile from ear to ear as my adrenaline rushes to my head--a result of this risky bridge walk!  I glance at the driver who has the privilege of driving across the gorgeous structure, and I am jealous.  They don’t look amused, but actually look quite fearful.  I wave and smile...they must think I’m nuts.  And then I hear it:  “Clankety, clankety, bumpety, bumpety, clang, clangety, clump, clump, creeeeaaakkkk.”  Music to my ears.

The Old Town Toll Bridge.  It’ll take you back in time.

For more info on the toll bridge, here is an article I found from last year:  

http://wvuncovered.wvu.edu/stories/fall_2011/the-link-between-two-towns

And these are the photos I risked my life to get:

My Dad

     As I sit here in LAX, I see hundreds of people walking by...some laughing, making idle chit-chat with their travel buddy, texting, typing, etc.  Normally, I find amusement in peering in on strangers’ lives.  I make up stories about why they are traveling:  A newborn in the family?  A wedding?  A honeymoon?  Maybe they won a sweepstakes, and they are on their way to Bora Bora?  But there is one thing I never dream about...A funeral.  And unfortunately, that is my story on this trip.

     That’s why I am here.  And I am angry, sad, hysterical, scared, pretty much every painful emotion imaginable.  My Dad will NOT be waiting for me on the front porch swing when I drive into my childhood home’s driveway.  My Dad will NOT be waving to me with a grin from ear to ear, saying, “Welcome home!  How was the drive?”

     No, this time, I will pull into the driveway a lot less innocent, reeling with the realization that my Dad is gone, as I avoid looking at that empty swing.

     So this is a tribute written to my Dad, whom I consider the best Dad in the world.

     I want to thank you for being there for me all these years.  Even though I raced to get away from home, you have always been there for me.  You supported me through high school and you gave me a car when I was in college.  In hindsight I think it was to ensure that I would come home and visit.  And when I got a speeding ticket in it a few months later that got mailed to you, you said you didn’t know that car would go that fast, and you cocked your head to the right and paused like you always do when you have something to say but choose not to.  By the way Dad, that silent treatment was the best punishment!  I know throughout the years I have caused you much anxiety, but you accepted me, and when it came down to the wire, you dealt with my antics with a quiet and calm demeanor that screamed self-control (at least when I was around!).

     My fondest memory is of me playing the piano, and of you coming into the living room to listen for hours.  Your constant support and compliments of my struggling wanna-be talent were so appreciated by me.  To this day, when I sit down to play the piano, I always imagine you sitting in the room with your eyes closed and a smile on your face, and all of your special song requests.  And I always will.  “Greensleeves”, Dad...when I play it I know you will hear it in Heaven, and I will be close to you once more.

     I always looked forward to our trips together to Southern States.  I enjoyed helping you on your projects.  I know you gave me busy work (like pulling out nails), but I sure enjoyed it!  --mostly just to spend time with you and watch you work.  You are so talented in building and putting things together!

     I loved making cookies for you when you asked.  Hot chocolate chip cookies are my favorite treat still and they give me cozy memories of home and you.

     Our trips to Kings Dominion give me happy memories constantly.  You were like a  kid on those trips and it has taught me to take time to enjoy life.

    
     I loved that you called me “Babe” or “Kiddo”.  It saddened me when I guess I outgrew it in your mind.  But I can still hear you and it makes me smile and realize how loved I have been and still am.  Three weeks ago, when I saw you last, you called me “Babe” once again, and my heart melted.  I will treasure that memory forever.

     Your relationship with Mom has been a constant beacon of hope and strength to me.  I always try to have just a little of what you two have created.  How you did it, I have yet to discover.  Your patience with children problems, finances, etc...ah...it is something I have always respected.  I think often of the horrible times when the house caught on fire.  Again, I respect you so incredibly much for holding us all together and getting through those major life events.  I know all too well how difficult it is to get through these challenges in life.  You did it with steadfast grace.

     Your faith in God has been an inspiration.  Your integrity is unmatched.  I remember going to Assateague Island, and you did something that had a huge impact on me.  No one was at the booth as you cautiously drove through the gate.  You looked in the rearview mirror and saw movement in the entrance building.  You promptly did a u-turn and went back to pay the entrance fee, even though they weren’t open or were on break.  I call upon that memory constantly in my life.  I always ask myself, “What would Dad do?  If he wouldn’t do it, then it is wrong for me too.”

     I could keep going on and on about things that have happened over the years:  how you carried me and ran down Goldsborough Road when I was bitten by the dog; how you took me to get hair cuts (much to Mom’s chagrin--upon further thought, it may have only been one haircut that you took me to get!); getting my tires when the wires were showing; day trips to Blackwater Falls; picking blueberries at Dolly Sodds; hamburgers on the grill; Cass Railroad; our trip to Florida when I was nine; all of your visits to California; and so on and so on.  I remember it all and appreciate it all!

     Without you, the world has changed for me, and based on the calls I have been getting and the sobs I am hearing, it has changed for many others.  You are my kindred spirit, Dad.  That connection encompasses our passion for traveling, our moodiness, our childlike enthusiasm, our concern for others, our sense of duty, our love of the land...I AM your daughter.

     When I think of you, I will recall the peaceful expression on your face as you read scriptures on a boat in the Sea of Galilee.  You said it was one of your favorite places.  Dad, you are truly right with God.  There is, without a doubt, a place reserved in Heaven for you.  You are at peace now.

     I can’t wait to see you again, and we can share a bowl of your homemade chili with our family and friends who have gone before you.  Our ancestry is strong.  I feel their strength and love all around me now.  Give them all a hug for me.  I love you.

The Camper

The Camper.  My Enlightened Discoveries from camping in Bryce National Park.

The Camper has always been an elusive character in my mind...a mystery.  My experience has been minimal, beginning with a camping trip to Blackwater Falls State Park in West Virginia when I was around 8 years old.  It was a disaster, ending in a morning of muddy packing after a torrential rainstorm in the night knocked down the tent.  I never saw that tent again.  Friends of mine reintroduced me about four years ago and I arrogantly poo-pooed the idea of a campground and their pancake breakfast.  My friends’ excitement over the whole thing never left my memory, and I stored it away to explore when I was ready.  Thank you to my good friends, Randy and Audrey!  I hope to enjoy many more camping adventures with them in the future!

Now I’m ready.  And here’s what I have discovered.

The Camper.  They are in the back of a pickup truck with ratty old blankets.  They are in million dollar plus class A motorhomes with a washer and dryer.

The Camper.  They are grilling a 99 cent pack of hot dogs.  They are grilling lobster tail and T-Bone steak.

The Camper.  They are walking their scruffy little yappy mutt.  They are walking their airdale purebreds--one for him and one for her.

The Camper.  They are alone.  They are groups of twenty.

The Camper.  They play their music loud until quiet time at ten.  They sit in silence looking up at the stars.

The Camper.  Couples take early morning walks hand in hand.  Couples play cards at the picnic table.

The Camper.  They drink cowboy coffee made over an open flame.  They drink freshly brewed Keurig cups.

The Camper.  The kids play horseshoes.  The parents get beat by the kids in a game of  horseshoes.

The Camper.  They drink sun tea brewed in a pitcher left in the sun.  They drink ice cold beer.

The Camper.  They sit in a chair outside and read a book.  They explore Nature.

The Camper.  They have a spat over mud on the astroturf.  They are inside the RV “resting” for an hour.  He he.

The Camper.  They are brand new lovers tucked away in a two-person tent in the most remote site.  They have been married for over 50 years and are sitting in the middle of the campground to make new friends as others walk by. (We met Bob and Grace from Flagstaff, Arizona this morning and talked for almost an hour! AND I got a sweet and sincere hug goodbye from Grace.)

And what do we all have in common?  Well, we are all here to enjoy the outdoors.  We all have a common goal.  To connect with Nature.  We are poor, we are rich, we are middle class.  Where else can we all get together like this?

So, I can now say.  I AM A CAMPER.

Arrival in Bryce!

We arrived at Ruby’s Inn Campground today, just outside of Bryce National Park.  Since we arrived in the late afternoon, we are setting up camp and will explore Bryce tomorrow.  In the interim, I had some interest in Utah state facts.

All the highway signs have the road number inside a beehive.  Why, I ask?  Utah is the “Beehive State”.  The Beehive and word "industry" became the official motto and emblem for Utah on March 4, 1959. Industry is associated with the symbol of the beehive. The early pioneers had few material resources at their disposal and therefore had to rely on their own "industry" to survive. The beehive was chosen as the emblem for the provisional State of Deseret in 1848 and was maintained along with the word "industry" on the seal and flag when Utah became a state in 1896.

Those Utah pioneers were “busy bees”!

OK, enough of the facts stuff.  So we get here and since this is the first official trip in the RV (minus a one-nighter in Big Bear), we have been met with some challenges.  I was chastised for walking through mud and then walking on the astroturf.  What can I say?  I’m a Jeep girl!  While I pouted about that, the water overflowed at the connector and flooded the whole site.  I took the opportunity to remind my sweetie to NOT walk on the astroturf!  He he.  Now it is a recurring joke.  Ah---much nicer to laugh about things than to stay mad.

I then proceeded to make an incredible dinner.  I made a basting sauce of peaches, soy sauce, garlic and jalapeno to put on grilled chicken.  Oh, wow.  So good.  Also grilled up some halved fresh peaches and had some fresh corn on the cob.

Then we had a nice walk around the campground.  Settled in at sunset by the campfire and grilled marshmallows.  Of course there always has to be some bonehead who plays their music too loud, but even that couldn’t take away the enjoyment of the gooey, sweet marshmallows!  Quiet time at ten p.m. leant itself to muffled conversations and laughter from the other campsites, along with the combined smell of all of the campfires swirling in the night air.

Sigh.  What a nice day.

Tomorrow begins exploration!

Time to think!

After 42 years, I am at a point in my life where I am taking some time for ME.  I have devoted myself to many different things in my life over the years, all with passion and wide-eyed innocence.  Much of my life has been challenging, but never disappointing.  I have learned that everything happens for a reason...such a cliche, I know, but once you hit your forties, it seems like all the cliches are starting to make sense!

I just cleared a major hurdle in my life.  Running a business alone after my ex ran off with his high school girlfriend whom he slinked around and found on Facebook and then found out that he fathered a child with this person when he was 15.  What do I have to say about that?  Well, there's another cliche for you!  And thank GOD that filthy hurdle is behind me and I had the tenacity to kick some dirt onto it as I dug my foot into the ground and pushed off.  See ya!

So, for the last few months, I have been trying to find myself.  YES, another cliche!

Stay tuned.  I have decided to tap into my writing talents, which I left behind years ago, but always missed.  I'm sure you will enjoy, be aggravated, sometimes maybe even cry.  But, it is often good for the soul to put yourself in someone else's shoes for a while (and that makes four cliches!).  Hehe.

I end my first blog with a quote that brings me comfort when I am pulling my hair out in frustration:

"Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing. To keep our faces toward change and behave like free spirits in the presence of fate is strength undefeatable." --Helen Keller