WYE BRIDGE, WHICH CROSSES to the island, is a long, creaking, wooden structure, dry and silvery with age. In the middle it has a true drawbridge like the one at Crisfield, that is pulled back on rails with a winch.
I saw the aged bridge tender, tall, lean, and gnarled, a typical Eastern Shoreman, sitting on a bench in front of his tiny shack on the mainland bank. Since water-borne traffic has disappeared from these parts, I thought his job must be just about the least laborious in the world, and I asked him how it was.
“Oh, they still come through, they still come through,’ he said. “Since winter [this was May] I had to open the bridge, let me see, three, no, four times. That’s right; four times, sir. …
“But at that I’ll say it’s a lonely spot,” he went on. “I have to talk to myself or I’d lose the power of speech. Yes sir, I asks myself questions and answers them myself.”
I don’t believe this book is in print anymore, but it has an Amazon page where used copies are available.
–posted by Jim Duffy on Aug. 31, 2017