Pollywogs (Essay)

Standing in 120-degree heat on the back porch of my family’s mobile home, I looked miserably through the dirtied glass of a five-gallon mayonnaise jar. My unlucky pollywogs were slowly drifting into their own heaven, even as the promise of their new legs began to sprout.

Catching pollywogs was an annual affair for me and my friends. Watching them die was, too. As soon as school was out each year we were in the creek catching little black-brown underwater bug-fish with tails. There was a way to do it. To swiftly, gently accost and capture. Not quite squeezing the life out, but wedging just enough pressure to get them into a jar quickly.

The creek at the bottom of our street, which was two towering hills with a valley in between, a great place to drive fast and bike even faster, was covered by a cement bridge that hid the sunlight enough to let pollywogs and other stream creatures warm up and cool off as they wished.

I don't now why it was such an attraction because I always ended up a few weeks later on the back porch, watching my dying pets. Lamenting the day I ever stepped my bare feet into the icy creek bed.