The sounds of a frog croaking wafted in my bedroom window last night.
Rhythmic and strangely soothing, it took me back to hot summers of my teenage years. I would sleep with my windows wide open, hoping to catch any hint of a southerly breeze. The gentle hum of the swimming pool filter was often accompanied by a croaking frog. Inevitably the family dog would try to play with the frog. It's croaking would turn into frantic screeching - only stopping when the frog made its escape from the dog or the dog had killed the frog with its playful curiousity.
It's strange what memories are stockpiled in your mind and then drawn out when the right set of circumstances link them to the present.
Rhythmic and strangely soothing, it took me back to hot summers of my teenage years. I would sleep with my windows wide open, hoping to catch any hint of a southerly breeze. The gentle hum of the swimming pool filter was often accompanied by a croaking frog. Inevitably the family dog would try to play with the frog. It's croaking would turn into frantic screeching - only stopping when the frog made its escape from the dog or the dog had killed the frog with its playful curiousity.
It's strange what memories are stockpiled in your mind and then drawn out when the right set of circumstances link them to the present.
1 comment:
Oh Nicole, you have a wonderful way with words. You gotta use this time while James is still little and before he heads back to school to write and write and write. A friend of mine has just got a publishing deal for her first novel. It was written six years ago and she's just been opening rejection letters since then, but she got the big thumbs up from an American house just yesterday. And Penny Harrison, she's out there writing again. Freelance stuff until Finlay goes to school (this year or next) and then she's getting back into it. She's subbing part-time and was doing some pro bono work for an eco magazine but she's getting back to writing too.
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