The other day in the library the cyber prompt came up to change my password. Sigh time. Not that it's a hard task, but to get a password that is keyboard easy and doesn't cause mental teeth-gnashing after the third use is tricky. So this time I thought, what word would bring me pleasure for the next three months and I settled on a scrambled form of "Frogtown".
So now, a dozen times a day, for a dozen weeks, I will type the word and see bunches of purple cloudy grapes hanging on Grandma's arbour where we sucked out the green center of childhood nectar. I hear the rush of the little stream that flowed through the meadow, where we raced sticks and built dams with our skirts tucked into our panties to avoid the indecent censure of proper shorts! I see the beautiful gray stones of the mill, and the beds of pansies, geraniums, marigolds edging the well-mowed lawns. I see the water barrel where we searched for minnows. I feel family because that's where we met for long tables of food and laughter with aunts, uncles and cousins.
Frogtown, that little road leading to simple meadows and farms and lives, sustains me.
