"You can never go home...." Bridge Story - Mother's Day, May, 2025

 The phrase 'you can't go home again,' drawn from Thomas Wolfe’s timeless novel, captures the bittersweet truth that time changes all things – places, people, even our own hearts. The past, once left, becomes a country we can visit only in memory; each return is a mixture of comfort and loss, the familiar made strange by the years in between.

Yet, yesterday, I found myself once again on the road that once led me to The Farm, where I grew up, crossing Maeystown Creek. I paused in the cool, dappled shade of a tree near the creek, unwrapped my lunch, and let the quiet wrap around me like a long-forgotten embrace. The soft rustle of leaves, the gurgle of the creek, even the distant hum of insects – all felt like whispers of an earlier, younger time, a place where my roots first found their hold.

Wandering down to the low-water bridge, I paused, marveling at the old structure. My father built it, with concrete and two large metal pipes, a practical creation that has withstood nearly fifty years of floods, winter ice, and the slow grind of time. It stands beside a newer, high-water bridge – a taller, more modern guardian built by the current owners – but it is that old bridge, sturdy and unassuming, that speaks most loudly to me. Its scarred surface and weathered frame, though marked by years, still bear the weight of countless crossings, each a small testament to the strength of roots and family legacies.

I paused on the bridge, and a memory rose, unbidden – a sweltering summer day when my cousin Mary, visiting from the city, joined our dear friend Mark for an afternoon at the creek. I can still see my old pickup truck bouncing down the dusty road, Mary and Mark perched in the back, my faithful dog chasing us, a blur of fur and energy. We splashed in the cool, shaded pool on the downstream side of the bridge, our laughter mingling with the creek’s soft song. We emerged, sun-browned and creek-scented, in need of a fresh rinse, our dog shaking water in every direction. Mary is no longer with us, but that sunlit afternoon lingers, bright and untouchable in my mind.

As I turned to leave, a small but surprising change caught my eye – a street sign, freshly planted and gleaming in the sun: 'Hill Creek Lane.' It struck me as fitting, a formal title for the long, winding dirt and rock path that once carried me to school, church, and endless errands. It felt like a quiet acknowledgment of the lives that have come and gone along its dusty length, each passing car adding another line to the road’s long, unending story.

Just before I reached my car, I glanced back one last time and felt the familiar pull of nostalgia. Houses now dot the distant hillside where once only wild fields and dense woods held sway. It’s a small but jarring reminder that the land, like time itself, never truly stands still. Yet, for all these changes, the creek still whispers, the trees still sway, and the bridge my father built still stands, a quiet monument to the enduring power of roots.

Though this land no longer carries my family’s name, my roots run deep here, intertwined with the creek’s song and the sighing of old trees. Time may change all things, but the call of this place – its pull on my heart – remains a quiet, constant reminder of where I come from.