Ford Model T |
Only the sound of running water rushing against the timber structure of the wooden bridge could be heard as I stood near the edge, looking down into the creek below. No sign of automobile or wagon tracks could been seen in the rain settled dust from the day before. The trees that grew along the creek seem to watch over the old bridge and the creaking of the planks seem to cry out to be heard as I walked its length and observed its structure.
As I sat down on the edge and dangled my feet over the side I thought of the many instances of which this bridge had been a part over the years. I thought of the times when the creek had flooded and this bridge was the only hopes of getting from the Old Scotland and Franklin communities or other points north. I thought of the times when a mule or a horse team would have to be unhitched from a wagon or buggy because one of the animals was skittish and the driver was afraid that one would push the other off the side of the bridge. Unhitching a team in the dead of night and leading the horses one by one across a high bridge and then having to pull the wagon across by hand was something that would test the patience of the most dedicated or maybe the driver of a Model T or some other early make of automobile, coming along when the road and bridge was wet and slippery; and spine tingling sensation of trying to keep the narrow tires from slipping off the runners.
I wondered too about the many tales that had been told to the small kids that lived along the roads near the bridge. Tales about the boogie man and a thousand other things that lived under the bridge, about how it wasn’t safe to go near the bridge in fear of something getting you and eating you whole. This was the way of keeping small children away from the bridge, so they wouldn’t fall off the side and get seriously hurt or killed.
I remember a bridge of this type near where I grew up as a boy. The story was that a huge cat stayed under this bridge and would only come out at night. I remember how afraid I was to cross it even during daylight hours.
Times have changed and not many of our young people know the joy of traveling horse and wagon; or sleeping in the wagon bed on a pile of quilts, when returning from a visit to the neighbors or from Sunday night church; or being able to run along behind the wagon and hold on to the rear, jumping off and one whenever the notion presented itself; or throwing rocks off the bridge as the wagon passed over.
I thought of the many people who had lived their lives in this area and had never had the opportunity to come this way and rest awhile on this bridge and reminisce away the hours of a sunny afternoon. If you haven’t, you are missing something.
(Singleton, the author of the 1991 book “Of Foxfire and Phantom Soldiers,” passed away at the age of 79 on July 19, 2007. A longtime resident of Monroeville, he was born to Vincent William Singleton and Frances Cornelia Faile Singleton, during a late-night thunderstorm, on Dec. 14, 1927 in Marengo County, graduated from Sweet Water High School in 1946, served as a U.S. Marine paratrooper in the Korean War, worked as a riverboat deckhand, lived for a time among Apache Indians, moved to Monroe County on June 28, 1964 and served as the administrator of the Monroeville National Guard unit from June 28, 1964 to Dec. 14, 1987. He was promoted from the enlisted ranks to warrant officer in May 1972. For years, Singleton’s columns, titled “Monroe County history – Did you know?” and “Somewhere in Time” appeared in The Monroe Journal, and he wrote a lengthy series of articles about Monroe County that appeared in Alabama Life magazine. It’s believed that his first column appeared in the March 25, 1971 edition of The Monroe Journal. He is buried in Pineville Cemetery in Monroeville. The column above and all of Singleton’s other columns are available to the public through the microfilm records at the Monroe County Public Library in Monroeville. Singleton’s columns are presented here each week for research and scholarship purposes and as part of an effort to keep his work and memory alive.)
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