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    Mark Grady

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Text Box: Text Box: BLAIRE’S BRIDGE                                                                                                                                                                         by Mark Grady CHAPTER ONE      As I stood in front of the man I had known all of my life as Uncle Larry, I felt a major lump form in my throat and wasn’t completely sure why – yet anyway. Uncle Larry was telling everyone within earshot the story of the bridge pretty near half the town was standing on or around right now. He was near the beginning and it was already an amazing, moving story; but that was not why I was shaking. I had this consuming feeling that the climax to this story would change my life - or complete it. Whatever turn Uncle Larry’s story was heading towards, I was convinced it would not only explain the magic of this simple bridge the entire town loved; it would also mean something to me personally. But why?      I braced myself while I listened intently to my favorite uncle tell the story in his usual calm and gentle demeanor. And as I listened, my mind seemed to reflect on the past several years of my life - the great satisfying, fulfilling ups; and the year-old event that almost caused me to give up on life, people and hope. I knew the significance of what I was hearing only makes sense if you took everything my family has experienced lately into account.      It’s not that I’ve ever taken for granted how special the place I live is. I’ve had friends and family from other parts of the state and even the country tell me how lucky I am to live in Clayton, North Carolina. I’ve always agreed with them. Being halfway between the state’s fantastic shoreline and our majestic mountains seemed perfect, especially for me. My teenaged daughter, Cathy, loves the beach and I fancy myself a mountain man. From here, it’s easy to head to either destination, depending on the time of year and whose turn it is to pick. So, being a special place wasn’t surprising. It’s just I had no idea how much an inanimate object, specifically an old bridge near the place I live, has played in my life until now.      This isn’t the first time I’ve heard Uncle Larry tell stories about bridges. He loved them. He designed and built them all of his life for the Department of Transportation. It was the link that had brought him and my aunt Blaire together. She loved bridges, too. Or, should I say she really loved a bridge, a covered bridge near the community of Archer Lodge. The bridge was torn down when she was a little girl. She missed that bridge so much that Uncle Larry built this replica of the old covered bridge for her. He donated the bridge and the area around it to the town to use as a park when she died. Until now, that’s all I knew about the bridge and Aunt Blaire. I just remember being told she died when I was very young and Uncle Larry never married again.      Having Uncle Larry nearby all my life, I always assumed everybody liked bridges as much as my family did. I mean, I knew people journey from all over the country to see the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. The largest arch bridge in the country, over the New River in West Virginia, even has its own day set aside when thousands come to walk across the bridge. Some even parachute off the thing. I heard that some folks cried when they took down the original Cooper River Bridge in Charleston, South Carolina.      When I was a kid, I remember insisting on walking across any bridge, or anything that looked like it might be a bridge, near a playground or park. I’m pretty sure my first ever construction project was a little bridge I made to take my Matchbox car collection through the little town I created in my attic. My Uncle Larry brought me over a huge bag of Popsicle sticks. I had no idea how he came across such a great find, but I had to find some way to put it to use. Then it hit me.      “I got it Uncle Larry!” I said. “I’ll build a bridge like the one you built over Swift Creek.”      “Sounds good to me,” my always meek, quiet uncle replied.      I put a piece of construction paper in the middle of my Matchbox city, colored a section of it blue for the water and spent most of that afternoon gluing Popsicle Sticks together. At eight years old I didn’t have the patience to draw or plan a bridge; I just started building. It took a few frustrating times of pulling some sticks apart before the glue dried, because it just didn’t look right, but I finally finished my little bridge. Uncle Larry sat quietly and just watched me with what I know now was the epitome of the “patience of Job” until I completed my masterpiece span.      “Now that is one great bridge,” Uncle Larry said.      I was proud of it and Uncle Larry seemed just as proud of it.      Now, standing at the edge of the real bridge he built, I was about to find out why he seemed so proud of me that day. Uncle Larry’s story would reveal a lot about him, me, and my Mom and Dad. Most importantly, I was about to hear the most amazing love story I had ever heard. So amazing, I want every one to hear it. But before this life-changing story can make any sense, you have to hear all that’s happened, especially over the last year, that has led to the significance of today being the day Uncle Larry told us his story.      By the way, my name is Clark Worthington. I’m just a simple high school English teacher who has had a fairly easy life – except for the past year. It was a year I almost lost hope, and I wasn’t alone. Darn near the whole town had been through an epidemic of despair the past several months. And while most had suffered silently, putting on that public front we all are guilty of, I was about to see an incredible miracle take place. I was about to watch Uncle Larry’s story change not only my life forever, but heal just about everybody in town of their loss of hope. ©2008 Mark Grady  All Rights Reserved                             ORDER BLAIRE'S BRIDGE HERE

                 CHAPTER ONE FROM MARK'S NEW NOVEL, BLAIRE'S BRIDGE

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