The Last Ferry

Every summer the families of Maple Hollow made a trip to the ferry crossing at the end of the county road, where a flat-bottomed boat had been carrying people and their belongings across the river for longer than anyone could reliably remember.

The summer that Carla Dinsmore was eleven, her grandfather took her for the crossing on a Tuesday in late August. He said it was important to go before the summer ended. He did not say why.

The river was low that year, and the crossing was slow. The ferryman's name was Alec. He did not hurry. Carla's grandfather sat at the front and watched the opposite bank come closer. He had the look he got when he was keeping something to himself.

On the far side, there was a gravel road and some birch trees and a field that went on until it met the sky. They did not go anywhere in particular. They walked a short way and turned back.

On the return crossing, her grandfather said that his father had brought him here once. And his grandfather before that. He said some things were worth keeping up, not because they were useful, but because they connected you to something.

Carla didn't fully understand what he meant until she brought her own daughter across the same river, on the same ferry, on a Tuesday in late August many years later, and felt, quite unexpectedly, that she was not alone.