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The Bridge at Loys Station

By On · Add Comment · In Arts & Entertainment

written by James Rada, Jr.

A serial fiction story for your enjoyment

4: You Can’t Go Home Again

Thomas Hamilton was in no rush heading back to Rocky Ridge because he had no idea what he would do when he got there. All he knew was that the bridge at Loys Station was the key to him getting home. Scratch that. He was home. He needed to get back to his own time, and the bridge was the way there.

The problem was that he didn’t know how it worked. He had wound up in the 1950s simply by walking across the bridge at the wrong time.

It didn’t make sense to Thomas. He only hoped it was all part of a bad dream he was having and that he would wake up. Maybe a car had hit him while he had been jogging in the fog. He rolled his eyes. How worried must he be if he was wishing he were unconscious by the side of the road?

Until he figured out what was happening, his body still told him he needed to drink and eat. He inquired at the farms he passed whether they needed a hand. Thomas knew farming. He was a farmer, so it was work he could do. No one needed help. Some paid him for odd jobs that he did, like sharpening plow blades or chopping wood, but they were one-time jobs. Thomas wanted to find steady work in the area while he tried to sort through what was happening to him.

He finally came upon a farm along Myers Road that could use his help.

“What do you know about farming?” John Weikert asked him. John had broken his leg earlier in the week and needed help. His daughters and wife were doing their best, but they had other things to do besides work in the field all day.

“I’m a farmer,” Thomas said. “I have a degree in agriculture.”

John snorted. “My youngest has a coon-skin cap, but that doesn’t make him Davy Crockett.”

“I grew up on a farm. I’m working my way out to Western Maryland to help my brother with his farm near Grantsville.”

“I need someone to help until I get this thing off.” He slapped his cast. “I won’t hire someone only to have him leave in two days.”

“I understand, sir.” Thomas didn’t know how long it would take him to figure out what was happening at the bridge. He doubted it would be something he figured out quickly, though.

In the end, John hired Thomas. Thomas got room, board, and what Thomas assumed was a fair wage for the time. He had to adjust his thinking about money. Even expensive things in 1951 seemed cheap when he compared them to 2021 prices.

John showed him to a room in the barn that had been built for a hand to live in, although the Weikerts hadn’t used a hand regularly for years. Thomas unpacked his clothes and sat on the bed. The room was small but comfortable. It was well-lit with a bed, bureau, sink, chair, and desk. John explained that Thomas still had to use an outhouse and the claw-foot tub behind the barn for his other needs. The barn had power, but the waterline had only been run to a spigot behind the barn.

Thomas came into the house at 7 p.m. for supper. He was looking forward to having his first full meal in two days. Up to now, he had been living off what he could scrounge from farms he passed, but the fruits and vegetables weren’t always ripe.

As he walked into the kitchen, John said, “This is Thomas. He’s going to be our hand around here until I get the cast off.”

Thomas looked around at the Weikerts. John and Amelia had three children, and one of them was the young woman Thomas had frightened when he came across the bridge yesterday. Her name was Jessica. He saw by her expression that she recognized him. The Weikerts also had a 10-year-old named Nathan and a 6-year-old daughter named Emily.

As soon as Thomas smelled the sausages and vegetables on the table, his stomach growled loudly.

Amelia laughed. “Someone’s hungry.”

“I guess I am, ma’am,” Thomas said. “It smells wonderful.”

He ate dinner quickly, or as quickly as he could between answering questions from the family. He tried to keep his story as close to the truth as he could. He didn’t want to have to remember too many lies.

He woke up early the next morning and dressed in his sweat clothes. He had washed them in the sink the night before and hung them in his room to dry. They would have to serve as his work clothes until he could find something else.

When he walked into the kitchen for breakfast, Jessica laughed at him. “I thought you knew farming.”

“I do.”

“You don’t look it.”

“It’s all I have right now. I’ll buy something else when I get paid.”

Amelia laid an arm on his shoulder. “Ignore her, Thomas. She’s just mad.”

“About what?”

“She is learning she can’t run this farm by herself.”

Jessica blushed. “That’s not true,”

Thomas tried to suppress a grin. She looked like a young child who was pouting.

John gave them instructions on what he wanted to accomplish for the day. He had Thomas harvesting the corn using a Massey-Harris combine Thomas had only seen as an antique, although this model was fairly new. The children, including Jessica, much to her chagrin, picked tomatoes. John tended their roadside stand, freeing up Amelia to handle the additional work around the house that the children usually did.

It went smoothly. Thomas enjoyed driving the old combine. It also gave him time to think about his predicament.

After dinner, Thomas walked over to the Loy’s Bridge and walked back and forth across it, hoping to find a way to trigger whatever had sent him into the past. Nothing happened.

When he came across the bridge a third time, he saw Jessica standing to the side.

“What is it with you and this bridge?” she asked.

“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Why are you here?”

For a moment, Thomas thought she was asking why he was in the 1950s, but then he realized she meant the farm.

“I needed work,” he said.

“We don’t need your help.”

“It looks like you do. Your father can’t work in the fields, and he probably needed the help when he was healthy.”

Jessica put her hands on her hips. “It’s going to be my farm someday.”

Thomas cocked an eyebrow. “Okay.”

“Just in case you had any ideas.”

“About what?”

“About trying to take my farm.”

“Your farm? I think you have quite a few years before it becomes your farm, and even then, your father might split it between you and your brother and sister.”

“No, it will be mine. They won’t want it. I do. I can turn it into a first-class operation if my father would just listen to me. There is so much being done that is helping farmers get more from their land. I intend to grow our farm and make it larger and better.”

“It sounds like you’ll need help.”

“Not from you.”

“Why not me? What do you have against me?”

She stared at him for a few moments and then she said, “I don’t trust you. You are lying about something. You say you’re a farmer, but you don’t dress like one. You say you have a college degree, but you don’t have anything more than the clothes you’re wearing. And you keep coming to this bridge.”

Thomas was about to reply, but Jessica turned away.

And this was the woman who was supposed to be his future. It didn’t look too promising to him.

Look for what happens next in our March issue

The Bridge at Loys Station

By On · Add Comment · In Arts & Entertainment

written by James Rada, Jr.

A new serial fiction story for your enjoyment

3: Lost in the 50s

Thomas Hamilton couldn’t believe he had simply walked back in time by crossing the Loys Station Covered Bridge. It made no sense. How many times in his life had he driven, jogged, and walked across that bridge? How many times a day did other people cross that bridge? Not to mention that time travel was impossible!

He looked around Main Street in Thurmont and shook his head. This was not the Thurmont he knew. The cars were bulkier. The streets were more crowded with people, and none of the businesses were the same. Mechanicstown Park hadn’t been built yet. The lot had a small garage and gas station on it. When Thomas looked down Water Street, he could see the marquee for the Gem Theater, which he had never seen in his Thurmont.

Thomas took out his smartphone from his armband. It had power, but no signal. He had no money and identification on him because he had been jogging. The only reason he had brought his phone with him was because he had been listening to his running playlist while he exercised.

He noticed the odd looks people gave him. He wondered if it was because of the way he was dressed or the smell of dried sweat on him.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Thomas turned and saw a police officer walking along the sidewalk toward him. He looked like Andy Griffith in his uniform on The Andy Griffith Show, which now that Thomas thought about it, wasn’t even on the air yet.

“I don’t believe I know you,” the officer said. “Do you live in town?”

“No, I live out in Rocky Ridge,” Thomas said.

The officer looked him up and down. Then he sniffed. “You don’t look like a farmer.”

“I am. I’m just making a trip into town for a break.”

“I’m not sure how much the store owners and customers will appreciate you in their shops.” He pinched his nose.

Thomas frowned. “Well, that’s rude.”

“I’m just trying to head off any vagrant complaints the police might get, sir. If that happens, we’d have to ask for identification, and things could get unpleasant. I wouldn’t want to see that happen. After all, you’ve done nothing wrong… yet.”

Thomas nodded. He also didn’t want to have to produce a driver’s license to show who he was. Not only didn’t he have one, but if the police checked the address on his license, they would find someone else living there and expiration date 70 years in the future.

“Thank you, officer. I guess I should have showered and changed before I came. I’ll head home and remember to dress for the occasion next time.”

The police officer nodded. “A good idea, I think.” Then he continued walking down the street.

Thomas headed in the opposite direction. People kept staring at him. They had certainly seen sweaty people, and they wore sweat clothes from time to time, perhaps not outside in public, judging by the crowd he saw, but it wasn’t unheard of. Then he remembered his smartphone. It was in a case attached to his arm so he could run with it. He grabbed it, slid it off his arm, and stuffed it in his pocket. He couldn’t do much about his reflective vest unless he wanted to stuff it in a trash can, which he didn’t want to do.

If Thomas was going to get by until he figured out a way to get home, he needed a change of clothing and money. He might look like a beggar, but that didn’t mean people would feed him.

He turned down an alley because there was no one down there to stare at him. He needed to think, and he couldn’t do that if he felt like every eye in town was watching him. He saw laundry hanging on clotheslines behind the houses that were built along the alleys north of Main Street.

He wasn’t a thief, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He slowed his walk, studying the laundry, trying to guess the sizes as best he could. He didn’t need long johns or socks. He could get by with a pair of pants and a shirt. He would look passable with those, even if he kept wearing his running shoes.

He saw a set of clothes he thought would work. He looked around, opened the back gate, and quickly took them off the line. The pants were still damp, but they would dry. He jogged out of the yard and headed down the alley and crossing the railroad tracks. He ran into a field of corn and changed into his new clothes.

One problem solved.

The next one was more difficult. He started walking to the farms he saw to the north and east of town, asking if they needed any field help in exchange for a meal. Thomas knew farming. He was a farmer, so it was work he knew he could do. He made up a story about his own farm failing and heading to Western Maryland to help his brother with his farm.

He only wished it was true. Things would be so much easier. He could walk to Western Maryland if need be. He couldn’t walk to 2023.

He didn’t find any takers for his services that day. He did manage to snag an apple off a tree while walking away from one farm. It turned out to be his dinner for the day.

He found a place in the woods away from the roads where he bedded down for the night. Once it got dark out, he worried he might twist his ankle in an unseen hole. He ignored the smell of his dirty sweat clothes and wadded them up to use as a pillow.

It was all about the bridge, he decided. The bridge had been a tunnel through time. It had shown him a clear scene on one side while all around had been foggy. He had known something was weird, but how many people traveled over that bridge in a day? Certainly, they all didn’t travel back in time.

Also, did it only work one way? He had gone back in time when he crossed over, but he hadn’t come back to his time when he crossed back. Still, if there was a way to travel back in time, there had to be a way to travel back to his time. He just had to figure it out.

Look for what happens next in our February issue

The Bridge at Loys Station

By On · Add Comment · In Arts & Entertainment

written by James Rada, Jr.

A new serial fiction story for your enjoyment

2: Times Past

Thomas Hamilton walked across the Loy’s Station Covered Bridge, ignoring the wooden beams around him. He focused his attention on the other side of the bridge, where the sky was clear and the sun shone. It stood in stark contrast to the thick fog on the side of the bridge he had just left.

He reached the other side and shook his head. It was a cloudless summer day in Rocky Ridge. It wasn’t even overly hot. He looked across Owens Creek and saw that it was now clear. The fog had lifted in the time it took him to walk across the bridge.

He couldn’t see the old man who had encouraged him to cross the bridge and find the love of his life. How could the man have walked away so quickly that he was out of sight? Thomas looked back across the bridge, wondering if the man had followed him, but it was empty.

He shook his head. This was turning out to be an unusual day. First, his girlfriend had broken up with him via a text message. Then, he had met the old man with his message that Thomas would find the love of his life on this side of the bridge. And, finally, Thomas had seen the odd fog that had moved in quickly, stayed on one side of the creek, and disappeared just as quickly.

The woman he had seen walking across the field was closer now. She was an attractive redhead who had her hair tied up in a kerchief. She wore overalls and work boots. He had grown up in the same house his father had grown up in. He thought he knew just about everyone in the area, but he didn’t recognize this woman.

“Where did you come from?” she asked.

Thomas shrugged. “I just walked across the bridge. You had to have seen me. You were looking right at it.”

“I must not have been paying attention. It was clear and then, suddenly, you seemed to be standing in front of it.”

She looked him over and then her nose wrinkled. Thomas realized he must still be sweaty from his run.

“Sorry about that. I was running earlier.”

“Running? From what?”

“For exercise.” She looked at him like he was crazy and stepped back. “I don’t recognize you. Do you live around here?” he asked.

“All my life. You’re the one who’s not from around here.”

“Of course, I am. My name is Thomas Hamilton. I live out on Old Mill Road.”

“I know the Hamilton Farm, but not a Thomas Hamilton.” There was only one Hamilton Farm on Old Mill, and it was his family’s farm. The woman cocked her head to the side. “You don’t look like a farmer. You look like someone dumped a can of fluorescent paint on you.”

He looked down at the reflective vest he was wearing. He didn’t think it looked that unusual, and it helped protect him from getting hit when he ran.

“You should talk. You look like someone trying to imitate Rosie the Riveter.”

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter. What’s your name?”

She raised her chin and glared at him. “I’m not sure I should say.”

Thomas shrugged.

“Whatever.” He had been crazy to give that old man any credence. This woman was the love of his life? Not likely.

He turned and walked back across the bridge. When he reached the other side, he still didn’t see the old man, but other things were different, too. The road wasn’t paved. It was macadam. And the playground in the park off the right was gone.

“What gives?”

He hadn’t thought things could get weirder. He was wrong.

He jogged back to his house to shower and change. Even the house looked different, particularly when he walked inside. All of his furniture was missing, replaced with the type of stuff he would see in an antique store. Wallpaper, not paint, covered the walls. He smelled ham cooking when he knew he had left nothing in the oven.

A woman screamed, and Thomas spun around. She had walked out of the kitchen, her face red from the heat from the oven and stove.

“What are you doing in my house?” she shouted.

“I–I live here,” Thomas said, even though he wasn’t sure of that any longer.

“You do not! This is my family’s house. Leave this instant before I call the police.”

“But this is the Hamilton Farm. I…” He was about to say “I live here” again, but while the house itself might match his home, these furnishings and the wallpaper all said someone else lived here and had for some time. Certainly, longer than the hour Thomas had been out.

“Can you…?” he started to say.

The woman ran back into the kitchen and came back with a rolling pin covered in flour. She waved it at him.

“Get out now!”

Thomas held up his hands and backed toward the door. Once he stepped out onto the porch, the woman slammed the door, and Thomas heard the lock engage.

He sighed and walked back down the driveway to the road. He headed toward MD 77, although he wasn’t sure what he would do when he got there. Something unusual was happening, but he had no idea what it was.

He walked along the road toward Rocky Ridge when a vintage truck pulled up alongside him.

“Need a lift?” the driver asked. “I’m headed to Thurmont.”

Thomas didn’t recognize the man, but he had friends in Thurmont who might help him, or worst-case scenario, that’s where his doctor’s office was located.

Thomas climbed into the truck bed, and the driver started off. A confused Thomas looked over the countryside. He recognized the landscape and many of the buildings, but others were different. It was like he was in Rocky Ridge, but not his Rocky Ridge. It became very obvious as they entered Thurmont. The two elementary schools, police station, and housing development on the east side of town were all missing. The truck pulled over to the side of the road and stopped across from the middle school, which now had a sign that said it was the high school.

The driver hopped out and said, “This is as far as I go. I have to arrange for some lumber.”

Thomas jumped out of the bed to the ground. “Thanks. I appreciate the ride.”

He walked toward the center of town. He grew more nervous with each step. This was all wrong. He stopped when he saw a sign in the window of a clothing store. “New Styles for 1951 Are In!”

Thomas staggered and had to lean against the wall. It couldn’t be, but in the back of his mind, he had been seeing the signs and ignoring them.

He was in 1951…48 years before he was born.

Look for what happens next in our January issue