Dad was still building the house - his magnum opus that we would eventually lose to the bank anyway. It was too warm to play and we were bored. Sister and Brother made their way along the hedgerow, sticking to the shade. I trailed behind as I tended to do, daydreaming. I daydreamed a lot in those days. “Look!” Sister squealed from ahead. “A frog! A frog!” She loved frogs even then. Years later, after I learned to drive, we would pile in the car and make squishing noises as if we were running over the road-full of toads that gathered after a rainstorm. She would yell and sometimes cry. But today we were content just to follow her. She followed the frog. It hopped along the hedgerow, oblivious of us. I had caught up to them now and was following the frog. It hopped into a clearing in the hedgerow. That's how the place got its name. It was big enough for all three of us to sit in there, “Indian-style”, in a circle. We were completely hidden. Dad walked by us two or three times and didn't seem to know we were there. As it got dark, I said we ought to bring some Christmas lights down on an extension cord. “I'll bet it'd be even cooler in the dark.” “That'd be dumb,” said Brother. “What's the point of a secret hiding spot if you light it up so people can find it?” Sister just sat there, quietly peering out the other side of the bush. It dropped sharply down into the pond. “I guess the frog isn't coming back.” “I don't think it will come back with us sitting in here,” Brother told her. So we left. Some time later, as the house became nearer to finished, we brought friends down into The Frog Spot to hang out. It began to get crowded as each of us brought a friend or two. We could squeeze six kids into the clearing, so Brother and I eventually had to take turns bringing in friends. “Why do you call it The Frog Spot?” one of Brother's friends queried. I told the story of Sister following the hedgerow and how we discovered we could hide in it. “Oh,” replied the friend, “I bet it was nicer back then.” Indeed, the field had “grown” in the years. Grandma rented out the field to the farmer down the road and lived quite comfortably on the proceeds. The overgrowth that had allowed us to hide completely in the bush had been cut back and a sharp ray of sunshine beat in on us. Sister lay restlessly across the back edge. If she rolled just the right way, she'd break through the side and slide down into the pond. I said so, and one of Brother's friends thought it would be funny to tickle her. As she wiggled and kicked, she did break through the side. Brother grabbed her before she could roll into the pond. “Why'd you have to be such a dummy?” he yelled at his friend. He crawled out of The Frog Spot in a huff. The rest of us followed him. We could have stayed if we wanted, but with the other side blown out, it didn't seem as cool. As the months passed and the field continued to grow into the hedgerow, The Frog Spot shrunk until only one could sit in it at a time. That, of course, was Sister. She kept looking for the frog. “It won't ever come back,” she mused once when I was sent to find her. “I don't think that same frog is still alive.” I said. She looked up at me. “How long do frogs live?” she asked. “Oh,” I bit my tongue and thought. I hadn't the slightest idea. “Maybe a couple years. But think how far a frog can hop in a couple years.” She nodded. “He probably hopped all the way to Delaware by now.” I just laughed. Many years later, after Sister and I had both had children, our boys were outside playing and managed to chase a frog into an overgrown hedge out back of her mobile home. We ventured out to find them. They were excitedly yelling they had found their own frog spot, but Sister and I were dreading the idea as we walked along yards of three-leaflet weeds winding in and out of the hedgerow. “Oh, no!” I said as we discovered our little boys rolling in it. We ushered them into the tub, but not quickly enough to banish the inevitable rash. “We just wanted our own frog spot,” Sister's little boy said miserably the following day. “We'll have to find you a different one, buddy,” I replied as I slathered them with Calamine lotion. In my mind's eye, I can see the three of us sitting in there, “Indian-style,” shaded by the overgrown bush. I don't recall what we talked about or what exactly was so interesting about sitting in there, but the image of the setting sun off to the west, and three young children hiding in a hedge is very sweet. Sister collected frog things for years after that. Blankets, robes, knick-knacks of all sizes, and even book-ends in the shape of frogs were part of her collection. I wondered if that was her way of catching The Frog Spot frog that got away from her. Once her husband brought her home a Pug puppy, though, her collections slowly switched to all things Pug.