If I heard correctly, the recent national survey on Bridge Safety in the United States listed Tennessee as Number 5, a happy statistic indeed, considering that our state too often shows up in the 40s in assorted national rankings. The Chattanooga news reporter to whom I was listening went on to explain that -- since the life expectancy of a bridge is normally fifty years and since most of the bridges he knew were approaching that age or older -- Tennessee would have to work to keep such a good rating.

My thoughts immediately turned to the tragic collapse of the Highway 411 bridge over the Hiwassee River one dark night in the late 1940s, a disaster in which a freight truck and at least one passenger car plunged into the river. It must have been in 1948, for I clearly remember giving Ralph Morelan a ride to the construction site after Senior play practice one night in the spring of 1949; by then, there was a foot bridge he could cross and walk on to his home over the hill. (He played my father in the play; Jo Ann Moore was my mother; I was an unpleasant brat.)

In those days before Eisenhower had brought the autobahn/ interstate speedway concept to the American Mind, Highway 411 was a main-traveled road; consequently the missing link created havoc between Knoxville and Atlanta. From Atlanta buses came to Benton, then backtracked to Ocoee, turned right to Cleveland, crossed the Hiwassee at Charleston, and eventually made their way to Etowah, vice versa from Knoxville. With a forty-five cent round-trip ticket, a Bentonian could spend most of a day riding the buses to and from Etowah, which I did on more than one occasion. Because of the strategic location, work was started at the earliest possible time on the new bridge. I should remember more than I do about it, for my father was TDOT inspector on the new bridge.

My favorite Old Polk County bridge was the questionably safe Reynolds or so-called Shaky Bridge over the Ocoee River on the dirt road which ran from the Morehouse Farms by Smyrna Church, hitting Highway 64 at Uncle John Kimbrough's farm in Ocoee. Several Sunday morning during my high school years I walked to my Kimbrough grandparents, the main attraction being sauntering across the Shaky Bridge. To reach their house, I turned left near Smyrna Church and went by the old Hildebrand House to reach their farm in the bend of the river. I would ride home with my parents and Tom who always visited there on Sunday afternoons.

Only once did I walk from my grandparents' to Benton. It was a hot summer afternoon and I had equipped myself with my Boy Scout canteen full of water. The trip went well across the Shaky Bridge by the Bain's, but then I noticed a very dark cloud in the west. I walked faster and faster as the menacing storm bore down upon me. Then came a lightning bolt, probably seeking my metal Boy Scout canteen, which hit close enough to sprawl me out in the middle of the road, stunned. From that position, although I couldn't seem to move, I became aware of a rickety pickup truck filled with people, also fleeing before the wrath of the storm. As the truck screeched to a halt almost touching me, people jumped out, gathered me up, threw me in the back, jumped back on, and off we went, lickety-split. Amongst the crowd, I recognized the welcome faces of Albert Duggan and his mother, from whom he obviously got his wry sense of humor. With an unmistakable note of mirth in her voice, that good lady, just as the edge of the downpour caught up with us, shouted over the booming of the storm and the shake-rattle-and-roll of the bumping truck: "The Bible speaks of times like this!"

Before the words were out of her mouth, we were drenched; I was revived, and we were all hooting with (nervous, I guess) laughter. By the time we got to the Morehouse crossroads, the short-lived summer storm had passed; we were soaked but in a jovial mood. They had all been doing field work and were pleased to be cool and have some time off early that day. The truck turned right toward the Duggan's home. I beat on the back window to get the driver to stop, and still a bit shaky myself managed to crawl out of the truck. After a final wave to my now boisterous departing fellow travelers, I made my way to Benton.

During the sixty plus years since that happened, I have used Mrs. Duggan's "The Bible speaks of times like this" hundreds, more probably thousands, of times to alleviate real and imagined tensions in the classroom and in life, always recalling that (in retrospect, pleasant) incident.

By the time I got home, thanks to the emerging hot sun, I appeared to be more sweaty than rain-soaked, causing my mother to be somewhat skeptical as to the intensity of my ordeal. My young brother Tom, then about five or six, on the other hand, liked very much the idea that I had been stuck by lightning and almost run over by a truck.

I have more lightning strike stories, which because of space limitations I will have to save for later columns. In the meantime, if you have a good lightning story that you would share, send it to nowandthenbhm@msn.com or to me at Apt. 4-B, 300 W 6th St., Chattanooga, TN 37402.