Memories of Monkey Bridge

Memories of Monkey Bridge on summer days when heat rippled over the lawn and jewel-like gardens momma would emerge from the front door, our only door, with a huge white wicker basket. papa carried the blanket and cushions. we would all climb into the old black ford, with the shades, which to my young mind were quite elegant; and go to Monkey Bridge. deep in the country side, the span crossed a shallow river clear, cool rippling gently over a stone bottom. this is where we would while away the hottest hours. Adventuring, rolling in the grass, wading in the river and frog hunting. There was a community of leopard frogs living in the shallows away from the swirls of faster water spending their days sitting on lush grassy banks hunting for bugs. Lunch came in mid afternoon so we had time to stalk and catch our prey. Michele and I would wander down stream eyes ever searching for a movement of a green striped creature. we would spy it out, then creep up on it slowly, well, as slowly as a two year old and a five year old could muster. with one bound we would scoop it up, hold it tight and dance about screeching, ”we caught it” at the top of our lungs. I held out my had staring at the poor frog it being in petrified shock. Michele jumped around, “give it me, give it me”. momma looked over at the fracas and said, “let your sister hold it for a while Patti” begrudgingly I put the frog into her hand, luckily it was still stunned. Michele closed her grubby little mitt around it speaking to it softly “nice fwog, good fwog, slowly