Of the Covered Bridge Festival

Every year my family plans a day away. We get up early and waddle out to the car, wrapped in coats and blankets. The sun begins to peek through the dark tree branches about an hour later.

Rockville is a major hub of the Festival, but we normally only stop there for breakfast. Beat the crowds, you know. Fresh crullers and hot chocolate, or biscuits and gravy if we are hungry enough. Someone inevitably burns their tongue as we huddle together under the red and white striped tent.

Back in the car, we take the scenic drive to the Bridgeton, passing through a couple of the covered bridges. I remember the time we drove through with Grandpa and Grandma. There was one bridge built in 1914, the same year as my Grandfather. Somewhere, we have a picture with the bridge and Grandpa—the same age.

Since it is light out, we begin the tradition of finding the best tree. One person will claim a tree and everyone else votes on it. Good trees get an “8,” great trees get a “9.” Perfect trees get “10s.” The person who ends up with the most points wins. Something.

One year when we stopped at a bridge, Anna met a puppy. We almost took it home. Dad stocks everyone up with lunch money when we arrive at Bridgeton. By this time we have already passed or stopped at a couple garage sales, where growing up I began my model horse collection. Everyone has their own top favorites, including unlimited beans and cornbread, soup in a bread bowl, kettle corn, pork rinds, fudge, and of course—pumpkin ice cream. It is a beautiful thing.

We walk around and eat and then eat some more, crunching leaves under our feet and looking at arts and crafts and apple kitchen décor. It is just a Winzeler family tradition. We have brought many friends and special people over the years, and I hope that continues forever.

As the story goes, one of the first Covered Bridge Festivals (before us kids), mom and dad went with their friends Penny and Kenny. Girls in one car, boys in the other. So mom was driving my dad’s old orange volkswagon. Penny was getting into the spirit and yelling out the window about random things. Then she saw a scarecrow in someone’s yard, so she yelled out a howdy.

The scarecrow was actually a person, sitting there for just such an occasion. It stood up and started for the car. Penny jumped into my mom’s lap, who now cannot shift the car, which began convulsing. The scarecrow continues to chase the orange bug as it slowly shakes it way down the fall highway, the gentlemen in the car in front of them laughing more than is appropriate. Penny stopped yelling at scarecrows. We kept going to the Covered Bridge Festival.