The Cardwell Bridge

Who says there is nothing to do in a small town! A few days ago, after a few days of rain (actually, a Missouri rain one evening - it was great!) Terry and I had been thinking about the Jefferson Valley Bridge next to the Cardwell school. We decided to drive out there before church and see if the river had gone over it's banks. It had not but it was close. And there were many large puddle areas near by. We remembered many times when it flooded enough to cover the windows of the old trailer just north of the bridge and the campground just south of it.
Something about watching the water at that spot is so facinating. It's different now, however. They took out the old railroad bridge just west of the bridge. And, of course, the bridge we drive over is made of cement instead of the old wooden bridge we always drove over hundreds of times as I grew up.
Evidently, river watching has been around for a long time. I remember once when our family drove to the bridge to see if the old bridge would hold when water was literally rushing, touching the bottom of the bridge. It was at that visit that one of my little brothers fell, head first, out of the front window of the car. Back then, seat belts were not existant and our cars resembled a can of worms. Open windows only meant one worm might slide out.
If that bridge could talk...
Grandpa Carroll and his high school friends would go bridge jumping from it. (another activity that is common in small towns).
When I was a teen someone, somewhere in authority decided the bridge was not safe for a busload of kids to drive across. So, for several months, going to and from school the bus would stop just before the bridge and we would all get out, walk over the bridge and wait on the other side. The bus driver would drive across and pick us up and then we would go on. Thinking back on this, as an adult, and a former teacher, I wonder about a number of things. Like... who kept the little kids from running over and standing on the edge, possibly falling in?
I never remember that type of incident. Who supervised the little ones so no one would get run over by the bus? Who kept the older ones from slipping down the bank and playing in the river? I don't remember any such incidents. Maybe it was because I had my eye on some cute boy up ahead. Or maybe we were all just a little bit afraid that old rickety bridge would just break as we walked over and so we would be swept away by the river. Or maybe we were just afraid the bus driver, Carl Armstrong would swat us with the fan belt he used to keep Randy and Vic in line when they acted up. Whatever the reason, we made it past that adventure in our, anything but dull lives, without mishap.
I'm sure, if the people of the Cardwell valley all got together they could tell many stories of that old bridge. And that very old river. When they decided to tear the bridge down it was a sad, even mournful event. Part of our life was being replaced. Change... you can count on it.