I'd ask them, "If I can still pour batter out of that pitcher, why can't I use that bridge to cross the brook?" But when I smelled that fried dough I remembered that woman making funnel cakes and realized that driving my car through our covered bridge was like mixing batter in my antique pitcher with a power drill. For months I had been telling anyone who would listen how I made pancakes using a batter pitcher made in the 1800s. When I smelled the fried dough I experienced what some people call an epiphany. I tooted farewell with my horn.Īnd then we were back out in the blinding sunshine, faced with orange traffic cones, crowds of people, and a booth selling fried dough. We craned our necks and watched the rafters pass above us for one last time. We quietly entered the cool, dark interior. The bridge was open one way from the north so we dipped and climbed through neighboring streets before cutting our way back home.Īs I approached the entrance of the bridge - it was decked out in flags and bunting - I turned the radio off and slowed. I piled the kids into the convertible, and even the oldest climbed in without complaint. The new concrete bridge wasn't ready so the town reopened our covered bridge. On the Fourth of July people needed to get into the park next door for the fireworks. The bridge closed behind me and my chances for a good last drive through were gone. If I hadn't pleaded for mercy with her forgiving principal she would have received a detention. We got pulled over on that unfamiliar route and I earned myself a $95 ticket for an expired sticker. Instead she gave me an adolescent eye roll and told me to just drive the usual way so she could be on time. When she was little she would have eagerly joined in the fun. That morning I asked my oldest child if I could drive her to school through the bridge one last time even though it would take us the long way. In late spring the town workers erected a "Road Closed" sign in front of my house. But my wife calmed me down and recommended acceptance instead. The news sent me through the stages of grief, and in my anger and denial I considered drafting a petition to halt what others were calling progress. Our bridge -the Creamery Bridge - would be saved for pedestrians, bicyclists, gawking tourists, feral cats and an odd horse or two. Last year I read that the long-stalled replacement bridge would be built this spring. Tourists would try to squeeze in as if it was a two-lane bridge, and we'd politely ask with upraised hands, "Just what do you think you're doing?"
A yield sign leaned away from the south entrance of our current bridge, so when we left home we needed to wait for other cars to drive through, and we'd ask ourselves, "Do we really need to go?" Sometimes people broke the rules and plowed through when it was our turn, and we used these times to teach our growing children patience. With this Bundle of e-books you’ll have everything you need at your fingertips to plan the best Disney World vacation ever.Since my family moved to Vermont we've always driven home through a covered bridge.
HANDS OFF MY FUNNEL CAKE CODE
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