Sunday, our pastor came.
Pastor Lyle Dorsey runs the little white Baptist church out on the highway. There are maybe forty people in his congregation on a good Sunday. When I heard his truck coming down the road at nine in the morning, I figured he’d come to tell us we were all going to hell for working on the Sabbath.
Instead, he climbed out of his truck in jeans and a flannel shirt with a box of sweet rolls under his arm.
“Canceled the eleven o’clock,” he said. “Told everybody church was down at the creek today.”
And they came. A dozen more people came walking down our road in their Sunday clothes, carrying casseroles and cases of bottled water and work gloves.
Before we started, Pastor Dorsey stood up on the tailgate of Royce’s truck. Everybody took off their hats. He bowed his head.
“Lord,” he said, “we thank you for the rain, even when it takes out the road. We thank you for steel and oak and strong backs. We ask you to watch over every child who walks across this bridge. And Lord, we ask you to soften the hearts of those who need softening. Including ours. Amen.”
“Amen,” everybody said.
Then the pastor took off his flannel shirt, rolled up his sleeves, and carried planks with us until his hands bled.
We cut the rig mats down into planks with a chainsaw. Royce and the Dunlap brothers ran the saw. The rest of us carried. Those oak planks were three inches thick and heavy as sin. Ardith carried them two at a time and never once complained. Bryce carried them one at a time and complained the whole way, and everybody laughed.
We laid each plank across the four pipes and drilled holes and bolted every single one down to the steel straps with carriage bolts and lock washers. Every board. Hub stood at the end of the bridge and tugged on each plank after it was bolted, to make sure it didn’t wiggle.
By two o’clock, the deck was done. Sixteen feet of solid oak, sitting on four joints of steel pipe, spanning the creek like it had always been there.
Then the rails.
I’d cut the last two joints of pipe into sections. I welded uprights every four feet along both edges and ran the top rail across them, three and a half feet high. Then I welded a second, lower rail at about two feet, at the height of a kindergartner’s hand. Because Tilly is four, and a rail three and a half feet off the ground is the same as no rail at all if you’re four.
I ground every rail end round and smooth. Beveled. So the kids wouldn’t cut their hands.
At four o’clock, I set down my grinder and flipped my hood up.
“Okay,” I said. “Who wants to test it?”
Eleven grown men walked out onto that bridge at once. Royce. Both Dunlaps. Pastor Dorsey. Earl Simms, who needed help. Hub, who didn’t. Five men from the church I didn’t even know. They stood in the middle and looked at each other.
“On three,” Royce said. “One. Two. Three.”
Eleven grown men jumped up and down on that bridge at the same time. Hard. Heavy work boots slamming down on oak, again and again.
It didn’t move.
Not an inch. Not a creak. Not a wobble.
Hub put his finger on the middle weld one more time, the one I’d done over. Then he stood up straight and looked at me across the bridge.
“She’s good, Jo,” he said.
Everybody on that bank clapped and hollered. Ardith was crying. Bryce whooped. Earl Simms took off his hat and threw it in the air and then needed somebody to go get it.
I looked up the hill.
Vance Tolliver was still sitting on his tailgate. He’d been there all day again. He had watched the whole weekend.
He never came down.
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
Ethan holds a degree in Communications from Zurich University, where he developed his expertise in storytelling, media strategy, and audience engagement. Known for his ability to blend creativity with analytical precision, he excels at creating content that not only entertains but also connects deeply with readers.
At TheArchivists, Ethan specializes in uncovering compelling stories that reflect a wide range of human experiences. His work is celebrated for its authenticity, creativity, and ability to spark meaningful conversations, earning him recognition among peers and readers alike.
Passionate about the art of storytelling, Ethan enjoys exploring themes of culture, history, and personal growth, aiming to inspire and inform with every piece he creates. Dedicated to making a lasting impact, Ethan continues to push boundaries in the ever-evolving world of digital content.