A Silly Story

A Silly Story

The town of Gnatsbridge was barely a spot on the map. Only its name was a curiosity. Curious enough to attract the occasional passing tourist. Passing may be a bit of a stretch. Gnatsbridge was five kilometres off the main highway and one hundred km  from the nearest city. One restaurant was attached to a small motel, elegantly named the Grand Gnatsbridge Motel. To get to this quaint little town, there was a bridge to cross. An old wooden bridge over the Gnat River.  

Each tourist that detoured to Gnatsbridge for gas, for a night off from the road, or just because was treated to Ma Malarkey’s story of how the town got its name. No one really knows if it’s true because Ma is the oldest woman in town. She was just under four feet ten, her long white hair was piled randomly on her head. A navy dress with tiny flowers was her uniform along with blue suede track shoes with white soles. She always carried a stack of Gnatsbridge Sights pamphlets in her voluminous apron. “Well now, I’ve got you in Unit 105 and I’ll walk you down there, show you where everything is.” 

“In 1905, when my great-grandfather homesteaded here, the river was barely a stream. Always clouded with flying bugs. Oh, he hated those wicked things. But, the town, struggling as it was, needed a bridge to get to the next town….that town’s gone now but we still need a bridge to get to highway you just came from. In those days, horse drawn wagons brought goods in from other towns. And we’re so glad you’re here but you wanted to know how our town was named…..you did, didn’t you?” Ma didn’t wait for a reply. “Well, building that bridge with only picks and shovels, hammers and nails was a big, sweaty job. The men complained and complained about the bugs. They fought them off ~ swarms of them, clouds of them very unhappy with having their stagnant river home disturbed. One day they were particularly bad. My great-grandfather told me ~ so I know it’s true ~ that all the men threw their tools down and left him alone. All of them grumbled but one of them hollered “You and those damn gnats and have their bridge!” Great grandfather smiled and said ‘Gnatsbridge. That’s what I’ll name the town.’

The man and woman looked at each other, rolling their eyes. She whispered to her husband “Do we dare ask how one man could name a town?” He looked panicked, shaking his head wildly. She touched Ma’s shoulder to stop her. Ma stopped in her tracks. “Yes dear? Is something wrong?”

“Oh, no. It’s just that my husband and I are extremely tired. You know, we’ve been driving a long time. We’ll freshen up and go to the restaurant for supper and it’s off to bed for us!”

“How disappointing! I’m not working in the restaurant tonight. But that’s ok, I’ll finish my story in the morning. You dears get a good supper and good sleep. Check out time isn’t until 11a.m. so we’ll have lots of time to chat in the morning.” 

~~~~~

Mr. and Mrs. Jones left at 4 a.m. leaving their key on the table, thanking the credit card gods that their payment had been made.

“Stories are like children. They grow in their own way.”

~ Madeleine L’Engle,  A Swiftly Tilting Planet

Author’s note: This story grew out of a writing exercise on the website writingexercises.co.uk 

The exercise: Town Name Generator: First I was to generate a town name: Gnat came up. The second step was to choose an ending. I chose: bridge. I liked the silliness of the name and a story began to form. It was fun!