Crooked Creek Rd.

Recently my youngest daughter and I took a drive down Crooked Creek Rd. The road winds along sticking pretty close to the creek by the same name. I’m sure I bored Allison silly with all my stories about things that had taken place here or there along the way back when this was a gravel road. It’s funny how things change in reality versus in our memories. I was shocked to see the small wood and iron bridge pictured here.

Photo by Allison Puckett

In my mind this bridge was huge, its sides were at least three stories high and the length over the creek surely could hold as many as four cars. Crossing this bridge and hearing the rumble of the wooden planks was the thing I looked forward to as a child when we’d make the trip from Gee to Mt. Eden. The trip seemed long. It wasn’t. The bridge seemed gigantic. It isn’t.

I wonder about another memory I have. Once a bakery truck wrecked on this bridge and strew doughnuts all over the road! It was an amazing sight. Such a tragic waste. Did it really happen? Now I wonder, but I can see it all in my mind.

“I believe that without memories there is no life and that our memories should be of happy times.” Lee Radziwill


9 thoughts on “Crooked Creek Rd.

  1. What a wonderful trip down Memory Ln! It’s funny how when we return to places from our childhood, what seemed mammoth to our childlike eyes now seems small and insignificant. Still, the memories are as vivid as though time stood still. I enjoy these excursions, the recollection of earlier times, and they never fail to bring smiles to this face. I hear the voices, the laughter, the joy of how the simple things made for such fun- filled adventures. Thanks again for this trip. It reminds me of two books, Remembrance of Things Past, by Proust, and In Search of Lost Time, as D. J. Enright adopted it for his revised translation published in 1992.
    In Search of Lost Time follows the narrator’s recollections of childhood and experiences into adulthood during late 19th century to early 20th century aristocratic France.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I have similar memories about an iron bridge near my grandparents’ home in St. Joe, KY–except. The doughnuts. Maybe it was a dream. It is sad when we no longer have anyone who can verify our memories, or tell us that they are all a dream.

    Liked by 1 person

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