My hometown of Butler, Pennsylvania, has a smaller-town neighbor known as Lyndora.  Lyndora became home to many turn-of-the-century (that's the 20th century) Eastern European immigrants, my grandparents included.  Several of these new Americans worked at the Pullman Standard Car Company, making railroad cars.  My grandfather and my father both worked there.

Lyndora was a mysterious small town, full of Orthodox church onion domes and full-service stores.  The baker, the shoe repairman, and the hotelier - whose establishment sold the most awesome hot sausage sandwiches you can imagine - joined the pharmacist the hairdresser, and the barber on our list of places to stop.

Pullman Standard employed hundreds and hundreds of workers, on three shifts.  During my grandfather's time, traffic was not a problem; most of the workers lived in company-suppied row houses across the street from the plant.  By the time my dad began working there, the push into suburbia was on.  And the little bridge between home and work was not designed to handle the traffic!

Picture this:  A single lane wooden bridge, accosted by hundreds of vehicles at shift change.  It was fun for a kid riding in the backseat on the occasional day when we had to pick dad up after work, but as an adult, I can only imagine the stress it caused the grownups.  This humble wooden structure was known as the Picklegate Crossing.  I don't know the origin of that name, but have always loved the sound of it.

It was not until the 1960s that the wooden bridge was replaced by a steel and concrete superstructure.  But if you traverse that way, you'll notice a small sign that says "Picklegate Crossing."  Glad to know that some things don't really change!