TOO MANY TROLLS, NOT ENOUGH BRIDGES

When you drive out of our lane, you have two choices. Turn right and go down a long, steep hill to the east or turn left and go down a long, steep hill to the west. Either way, you will need to cross a good-sized creek before you get to a main road. Imagine our surprise when both east and west bridges were designated unsafe and closed for repairs. We did have one option, a small road that goes north and adds 5 miles each way on every trip.

 After a few years of detouring, two neighbors and I paid a visit to the county supervisors. One of the neighbors drives a school bus, and one is a farmer. We wanted a progress report.

We stood before our elected officials––the County Board of Supervisors––and made our 10-minute presentation. The school bus had to take a dangerous detour, and the kids were on the bus far too long. The farmer couldn’t be making a 5-mile trip with a huge combine just to get to his south field. And when I was called out to a hospice patient’s home, I didn’t need extra time tacked onto my trip. “If it were your mother who needed a nurse, would you want to wait longer than necessary?” We were calm and factual as we made our case. Then we sat down.

One supervisor solemnly pointed out we weren’t the only ones who had road problems. He said, “There are dozens of bridges out in our county!” Since this Board is in charge of roads, I wasn’t sure why he was publicizing this fact.

When I raised my hand, they rolled all 6 of their eyes. “Yessssss, maam?”

“Could you explain to me how you decide which bridges to fix first? What criteria do you use to decide? Is it simply the order in which they crumbled and fell? Is it needs based?” Or is it how big your spread is and therefore how much property tax you pay to the Board of Supervisors? There sure weren’t many bridges out in the other corner of the county where the very well-off Amana Colonies are.

I was referred to the road engineer, but he was not present. His assistant was there and said he’d have to find that information for me. He couldn’t rightly give me an estimate on how long that would take. So far it’s been 13 years. He must be very tired of searching. I know my husband’s getting tired of keeping his calls short while I await that call back.

We left the meeting without much hope for our bridges. And yet, that very afternoon I received a phone call that lifted my spirits far higher than a new bridge would have.

There had been a small town reporter at that meeting, and she had accidentally left her tape recorder running after they adjourned. Seems our 3 public servants had had a little tête-à-tête after we left. They had a lively discussion about city people who move to the country and then expect the county to put in super-highways for them.

The reporter asked for my reaction. Since I hadn’t actually heard the taped comments, I said I’d defer until I saw her article and then respond to that.

The phone was hardly cradled before it rang again. It was the county supervisor who had spoken so eloquently off the record. He sounded physically ill. Contrition was dripping out of the phone onto my feet.

Turns out this poor fellow had been striving to develop the county, to bring in people and businesses. Any suggestion that outsiders weren’t welcome wasn’t exactly part of his business platform.

I asked if supervisor man was sorry about what he said or just sorry he got caught. (I didn’t raise 3 kids for nothing.) He apologized profusely and said he had a request for me: would I please tell the reporter not to print her story? Honest, he did.

I asked this gentleman if we had a right to passable roads? He said we sure did.  I asked if that right didn’t start the moment they cashed our first property-tax check, even if we were the only people in the county who weren’t 3 generations deep there. He completely concurred with that, too.

I reminded him we were not requesting a “fancy interstate­­,” just a bridge across an otherwise impassable creek bed. He fully understood. And did we have a right to petition our Board of Supervisors and be treated respectfully? Sure as shootin’ we did. 

“But,” he asked, “wouldn’t we all be happier if you called the paper and asked them not to print that story?”

He should have quit while he was ahead, and it had been a long time since he’d been ahead. “You know,” he said, “I think that reporter must have heard us wrong. We wouldn’t say anything like that. We welcome new people to this county. I think I’ll go back and check our  official tape of the meeting, and I’ll get back to you.”

“Wait right there,” I said, “I’ll come listen with you.”

Pause.

“You know,” he said, “it might take a while to locate that tape. I’d better call you when I find it.”

The reporter wrote her story, I wrote my response, and a crane magically appeared at the bottom of the hill before you could say Up for Re-election.