The stream was shallow enough to wade in but deep enough to make it fun. Freezing water year-round, running clear over silt and sand and slippery rocks. Our moms got good at Now don't you go in that stream you will Break Your Neck. We got good at not listening.

On the banks we were kids, whooping and hopping around, throwing rocks in, YAYing the biggest rocks that made a GLUNK as they went under. But once in the water, we hushed, without discussing it, we were silent for the frogs.

We moved slowly, single file, feet sliding on the bottom, trying to avoid the slippery rocks and the sharp ones. The frogs didn't hear us coming until we were right there. Most days we just slid forward, watching them spring up the bank in a hurry, their motion bursting outward from ours. Other days we were faster and grabbed them before they could escape. How many frogs can you hold before you can't catch any more? And without using your shirt or your pockets. I think Mitchell got up to five one day, but his hands were bigger. You'd think we'd be yelling and calling back and forth, but we didn't, we stayed quiet. We laughed, but low - we were busy.

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