I love covered bridges. I like the detail structural work and the craftsmanship required to construct it, all of those rough-hewn timbers cut so precisely and fit perfectly into place by common men with average skills of the day. By today’s standards, the carpentry skills of the average worker in the early 1800’s would be considered artistic.
Walking through a covered bridge is like walking backwards through time. The sounds you hear inside the bridge are from a time gone by; the creaking of the joints, the wood deck echoing the clip-clop sound of horse’s hooves, and the rushing water below, all come together in a chorus of memories. Oh, the stories the bridge could tell.
The bridge in this picture is not a railroad bridge, never was, at least there is no sign of an old railroad bed on either side, so I can’t explain the RR sign. Its located in southwest Vermont. I liked the scene so I tried to give it a painterly effect, but it hardly conveys the feelings you have when you stand inside the bridge.
Thought for the Day: Every generation imagines itself to be more intelligent than the one that went before it and wiser than the one that comes after it. George Orwell