When Eric and I watched the story about The Fabulous Five and their plan to blow up the Route 82 bridge, we laughed. According to the CBS correspondent, their intention was to disrupt travel for persons working in corporations. Now this bridge sees plenty of traffic and innocent people would have been tragically hurt or murdered had the plan come to fruition, but logistically speaking, this lil' stretch o' road between Brecksville and Sagamore Hills ain't the biggest (ahem) bang for your buck if you're trying to blow up something in order to prevent people from getting to their corporate jobs.
If The Fabulous Five is the best the anarchists have to offer, I don't think we have much to worry about.
|My great grandparents,|
Emily and Fred Doubler, circa 1920
The Route 82 bridge is very close to Old Station Road, which takes me back back back.
|Dad, circa 1975|
Dad and I were sitting in the backyard, steaming in the heat.
"Come on," Dad said, "let's go for a drive."
We piled into his primrose yellow XKE coupe. Dad didn't tell me where we were going and I didn't ask. I just basked in the air turned magically cool by the car's motion, my hand sticking out of the passenger side window like a tiny bird swooping up and down in the draft.
|My brother John and me, circa 1978 in front of the Lakewood house with Dad's XKE coupe.|
"Listen," said Dad as we stepped out of the car.
The air was electric with the undulating chant of the crickets and heavy with the smell of the river. The tangled trees and vines were secrets against the indigo sky. Perspiration beaded on my lip. Dad drew disappearing red circles with the glowing tip of his Marlboro. I waited.
It took a few minutes for them to start, but start they did. The deepest loudest croaking I had ever heard. I couldn't believe it was real.
"What is it?" I asked, my spine straightening.
We listened to the whole beautiful orchestra while Dad finished his beer. Then he took one long last drag of his cigarette and dropped the butt in the empty Stroh's can.
"Time to head on back," he said.
Old Station Road is cordoned off now. I've defied the "no trespassing" sign and poked around back there in the night, but I've never found the bullfrogs again. Maybe they moved. Maybe they died.
Maybe it's time to look for them again.
You can have the anarchists. I'll take the memories.
* * *