When I met Lucy, it was love at first site. Not romantic love, but the best kind, true friend love. A freckled redhead, Lucy’s hands were covered in warts. Everybody knew you got warts from playing with frogs. I played with frogs every chance I got, but so far had not been able to acquire the warts I coveted.
Naturally, I still had to ask, admiringly, How’d you git them warts?” I always took the subtle approach.
“How do you think? From playin’ with frogs, Dummy. Frogs’ backs is covered with warts.” My admiration grew exponentially, a girl who liked frogs and wasn’t afraid to say “pee” without looking around to make sure her mama couldn’t hear. I had a hard life. My own mother made us say “wee wee” and swore she’d know if we EVER said “pee.” “Pee” was vulgar. I’d had my behind paddled more than once for getting caught.
“Have you got any frogs now? I want to see them warts.” I had to know.
“Sure. There’s always some at the creek.” She took off with me following. Wading in, we were soon rich in frogs. Catching a couple, we examined them, finding their backs splendidly populated with warts.
We passed an idyllic afternoon with those frogs in the cool creek.I still remember the feel of those scratchy warts on my fingers. Tadpoles frolicked joyously in shady pools, just out of our reach. Wet and muddy to the waist, that day I knew perfect joy. Time stood still. Long before I’d had my fill of warty frog fun, Mother called out saying it was time to go, but not before I slipped a couple of frogs in my pocket.
“Oh no! I gotta go.” I whined.
“That’s okay. Next time you come back, we’ll git you a snake.” She promised.
I got the snake, but never did get my warts.