Chapter 10: The Dedication of the Span
Three months later, on a brilliant, freezing morning in late October, four hundred citizens from across southern Ohio gathered along the banks of Copperhead Creek.
Resting over the clear, rushing water was the restored covered bridge.
Its 110-foot white oak framework gleamed beneath five coats of natural linseed oil; its red-painted pine cladding stood proud against the backdrop of fiery sugar maples and dark hemlocks; its hand-split cedar roof shingles smelled clean and sweet in the autumn breeze.
The county commissioner stood at the timber portal beside Clara Evans and Arthur Cole, holding a pair of large bronze ceremonial shears.
Lucas stood at the center of the span, dressed in a tailored charcoal wool jacket and clean boots, his posture upright and serene.
The commissioner stepped up to the microphone, his voice echoing through the covered wooden tunnel.
""For ten years, commercial developers told us this bridge was a relic of the past,"" the commissioner spoke to the assembly. ""They wanted to spend four million dollars of public tax funds to replace our history with ugly concrete and steel guardrails. But the craftspeople of the Scioto Valley Guild proved that when a community honors the truth, our own timber and our own hands can build spans that will outlast any corporation in America.""
The commissioner handed the bronze shears to Lucas and Clara.
Together, their hands touching over the wooden handles, Lucas and Clara cut the red ribbon with a clean, triumphant *snip*.
""The crossing is open, neighbors,"" Lucas announced, his voice ringing strong and clear. ""Walk together!""
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The crowd erupted into thunderous, joyous cheers as vintage farm tractors, horse-drawn wagons, and laughing children ran across the heavy oak decking, their footsteps drumming against the timber like a chorus of unshakeable hope.
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