Article about Decatur Bridge

Tires rumble over the rugged transition from the highway's asphalt to the grated steel bridge. The rubber hums as it passes over the metal. Land falls away on either side, lifting drivers, 10, 20, 30 feet above the murky Missouri River. White steel trusses stretch upward, framing a blue-sky spring day.

Only after the bridge crests can drivers see the narrow, two-story white shack. Consider it a small-town welcome wagon. Inside, two good ol' boys are ready to welcome folks to Nebraska.

Even though he quit running French's Food Market, he still looks like he should be behind a meat counter, slicing someone's honey-cured ham. He has an easy smile that puffs his cheeks. The 73 year old widower's wispy, black-gray hair tops off a friendly face.

But Larry has traded his butcher's bib for a gray-pinstripe, button-down shirt "Larry" is sewn in crimson cursive on the right breast., "Burt County Bridge Commission" on the left..

Sure, the 618 residents are proud of the annual Fourth of July Fireworks show, which they say rivals Omaha's. They're quick to tell you Decatur is the second-oldest town in Nebraska, behind Bellevue. And they're eagerly awaiting the reopening of the Green Lantern Steakhouse which burned down a couple of years ago.

A group of Decatur residents raised the cash to build the steel-through truss bridge in the late 1940s. By the time they had it finished a few years later that darned Missouri River had changed course. It wasn't until 1955 that the Army Corps of Engineers redirected the river to go under the bridge.

It's still privately owned by the bridge commission, which has tried to give the structure to the States of Iowa and Nebraska. Both declined, calling it out-dated. So the commission collects the toll for upkeep.

Teams of retirees get paid $9 an hour to toil in the tollhouse. It's a glorified closet, holding a cash register, refrigerator, microwave, TV and tiny bathroom. Windows on either side slide open to allow toll takers to access eat and westbound traffic.

Inside, Larry is constantly moving. He grabs two quarters from the register so he can hand drivers immediate change. He looks out the west windows for approaching cars. IN typical small-town fashion, he often knows who's coming before they stop at the booth.

The toll workers get used to seeing their regular clients. Truckers who tip in Slim Jims. Newspaper deliverers who pay in papers. John Deer workers hauling tractor parts, Ladies paying tolls with nickels they snagged from CasinOmaha slots. Omaha Indians from nearby reservation who work at those same casinos.

If a regular doesn't come by, the toll takers get nervous. Larry's favorite is a little person who zips through the toll booth with a big smile and handfuls of quarters. In a couple of hours, the young woman passes through four times, carting friends to and from the casino. She's a character, he says. She really is.

Of course, there was a time when Larry was quite the character, too. With a little prodding he'll tell the story about the time he blew past the tollhouse without paying. It was

decades ago when he was still in high school and was dating his not yet wife. He and some buddies piled into the car after the Fireman's Ball. They wanted to drive to Onawa, the only nearby town with an all night diner. As they approached the tollhouse, Larry's rascally friend, Rex, slammed on the foot fee, revving past the booth. On the way back, they stopped. A stern-faced toll taker who knew Larry's car well, scolded the group. Larry paid a double toll and was on his way.

His eyes sparkle when he tells those stories. He becomes a little distant, coaxed back in time by the memories. That toll bridge seems to do that to people. They love to tell stories about that steel structure. Like the time a guy named Gene from Pender, Neb., jumped off the bridge as part of a $5 bet. Or the time floodwaters nearly touched the bottom of the bridge. Or the time a kid trying to outrun police slammed into the original toll booth, destroying it and himself.

Before he finishes that last story, Larry looks up, pulled back to modern-day Decatur. Norman Frey parks his 1971 Ford pickup near the tollbooth and rumbles in. He's relieving Walt, who se shift runs from 5 a.m. to 11 a.m. One of Norm's first customers is an SUV full of slick-dressed business types. "We seen 'em dressed up." Norman gives a crooked smile and a mischievous look toward Larry, "We seen 'em undressed, too".

During a lull, Larry eats a reheated hotdog and French fries. Norman downs a hamburger steak and part of a left over sandwich from his favorite steak-house in Lyons, Neb.. they watch a little CNN, talk a little politics and lament not being able to fish on such a beautiful spring day. But who are they fooling? When you work at the tollhouse, you work at the epicenter of social life in Decatur. Darn near the only way they hire anyone new is when one of the old boys keels over Norman says. Larry laughs and nods at that. Then he catches sight of a big boat of a car crawling toward the tollhouse. It lunges to a stop. The window slowly creaks down. An old man with dark sunglasses carefully extends a shaking fist and drops three quarters into Larry's hand.

"How you feelin' these days?"" Larry says, giving a concerned smile. The old man has surgery later this month. More tests. More medication. He's not sure how much time he has left. "Well, I tell you what" Larry emphatically nods his head. " don't know about you, but I believe in God. When we leave here....." Larry trails of. He looks around. At the mighty Missouri rushing under that bridge, At the white lawn ornament geese stuck into the grass outside a nearby house, At a liquor store owner sweeping his driveway. "When we leave here, we're going to a better place." But does he really mean it? For smiling guys like Larry, who have lived in little old Decatur all their lives, is there such a thing as a better place than this weathered tollhouse nestled next to the that steel sentinel the pride of this tiny town?

The old man in the car is silent. He rolls up the window and eases his big vehicle away form the tollhouse. His tires hum over that metal-grated bridge, under the trusses, past those rusted signs and away.