The following story contains remembrances about the Reed Creek bridge from Patricia P. Widner
“I suspect that many folks involved in restoring or preserving historical sites or artifacts never really grasp the significance of their activities. The scholars, engineers, planners and workmen simply do their job with clinical precision then move on to the next project. But there are times when some little person in the great throng of society is touched beyond description. Let me tell you the story of one.
It was in the 1940s and early ’50s. I believe we did not realize it at the time, but certain parts of our family life had settled into an established routine; traditional activities always the same. And in those long-ago days, we did not appreciate the sweet sameness that was ours.
After Sunday School, the family went to Grandmothers [sic] for the fried chicken dinner. And those were the days when “dinner” was the midday meal. We helped with the dishes then piled into the car for a ride. Grandmother seldom rode in a car – she lived on Main Street and walked to whatever she needed.
I’m sure we drove to many places, but what I remember was the bridge on Reed Creek. We always went there. My dad died suddenly when he was very young, and the afternoon trips came to an abrupt halt.
Of course, I understood safety concerns when the bridge was closed, and I was thankful that it was not destroyed. Through the years, I would drive there on my own little rides.
Today was gray and blustery. Passersby would have seen a solitary figure, bundled against the cold, walking with slow, measured tread across the bridge. And if they could have looked closely, they would have seen the tears.”