CONVERSATIONS WITH THE LA CROIX BRIDGE TROLL

Under the Park's arched bridge, where, in my fanciful world, lives the troll who questions my right of passage every morning, and elder berry bush is blooming. First time I've noticed it. I think the old troll is mellowing or "chilling out" as the young'uns say, else he would be too grumpy to let an elder berry bush grow and blossom and bear berries.

Maybe he has been bemused by the sound of the happy waters as they slide over the little limestone shelf reaching from bank to bank. With the abundance of rain this season no day or night has been without this watery music. Bankside crickets have already assembled to listen and come in at proper intervals with their own inimitable music. Nearby meadow larks don't miss their notes, nor do the killdeers and red-winged blackbirds. It is a real June, creek side symphony.

When he was younger this old troll would have snapped off the branches of the elder berry bush and sat with a bundle of switches in his hand, ready to emerge and menacingly confront anyone who didn't have a suitable reason why he should wait for the next one to come by before he came up from down under to eat him, the passerby, alive, a trick we learned from the Billy Goat Gruff family.

I really don't have a placating plea to make to Mr. Troll, as I walk only across the bridge to the last board, turn around and go back to continue my stroll.

However, I might talk him out of destroying the newcomer elder berry bush. "Can't you see how beautiful the blossoms are?" I'd demand, trying to send my voice down through the widest space between the bridge planks. I don't suppose you know what a lace doily looks like, but in my world up here, we consider that blossom beautiful as a piece of Italian lace.

"And the fragrance! Troll, do you have a nose? Can you smell? Why, right now, there is a sweet incense coming up between the planks of this old bridge that is better than any French par fume concoction. Oh, I do hope you have a nose, Troll. "You eat don't you? Well, of course, I forgot you threaten to come up and eat everyone who crosses over this structure. Well, listen, here's a hint. If you'll just be patient, these very sweet smelling, lacy doilies will turn into a panicle of purple berries I think you'd like. You could rest right there under the bush and reach up and pick a berry, and another one, and another one, all day long if you so wished. Just let the purple juice run out of the corners of your mouth and drip down on your vest. I guess you wear a vest, don't you? All self-respecting trolls wear vests green, with buttons of buttercups.

"And, ssh, listen to this. If a container of some sort comes floating down creek, and sometimes I notice they do when there is a cloudburst, grab one of them, strip off a whole handful of berries, put them in the container, catch a little rainwater and set it all aside for a while. Right up there in that notch where the piling meets the porch support. In a week or two Boy! old Troll, you might get euphoriaized and invite those you consider trespassers to come down under and have a convivial sip with you.

"Elder berries make good pies too. Haven't made one in a long, long time. I don't suppose you know much about pies, do you, Troll, seeing as how you're pretty carnivorous. I could make you up a pie about the size of chicken pot pie and bring you down a piece if you'll promise to let that elder berry bush alone.

"Maybe it will grow way up here where the cable rail is and I could garner some of the berries. Bank's too steep for me to come down unless, unless, you do happen to make some of that that drink I was talking about that has certain indisputable medicinal qualities.

"Troll? Are you asleep? You haven't even shook the bridge and I'm standing right in the middle where you usually give it a shake. Wake Up! The meadow larks are singing. The water is gurgling. Here comes the sun!"

REJOICE!