East of the Bridge Village

My writing instructor gave me an assignment to write whatever I felt like writing about East of Bridge Village and across Muddy Trail. Because I had no idea of where East of the Bridge Village and across Muddy Trail is or was, I allowed myself to imagine a time and place in my own experience that might resemble or suggest this kind of location.

Nothing matching that possible location came to mind, but in my imagination t felt like an experience of my childhood that matched the dynamics of East of bridge Village and across Muddy Trail. It takes me back to the summer of 1939, just before the start of World War ii. I was seven years old, heading for eight in three months. We lived at 22 and a half Mountain View Avenue in Eastern Kingston. My step father Kenneth “Bam Bam” Weekes was in England with the West Indies Cricket Team for a Test Match series against various English County teams. My mother, Viola, was a member of a women’s community social club and they organized a picnic, with a bus load of people in the community. I just happened to be the youngest person in the bus load of about sixty people. Destination, Castleton Gardens in the parish of Saint Andrew. Castleton Gardens was a government owned and operated experimental botanical garden, with exotic tropical plants from all over the world.

Castleton Gardens, although less that 30 miles from where we lived, was about and hour of drive time, partly because of the twists and turns and the mountainous terrain. We had to make the ascent from Constant Spring to Stony Hill, and then the decent, past Golden Spring before we had some level roadways and on, into the village of Castleton, and the gardens. All of that was compounded by the speed limit of thirty miles per hour. Thankfully, traffic jams were not part of the problem in 1939; there were not nearly enough automobiles on the roads. The aroma of of home-made delicacies filled the bus. Curried goat, oxtail, salt fish and ackee, fried dumplings, potato pudding, corn pone and on and on went to list. I must admit that all that food didn’t turn me on. I was not a foodie, but I was looking forward to the potato pudding and other deserts.

We arrived at the gardens mid morning and before long, games were organized and small groups gathered to play dominoes and checkers. There were other children playing games but my interest was peeked by what some teenage boys were doing. They headed for the river bed, and began leaping on rocks to cross over to the other side where there were rose apple trees. So, unknown to my mother, I slipped off to follow the big boys. I tried to leap from rock to rock as I attempted to follow them, but there was a problem. My legs were not long enough and my leap not strong enough to keep up with them. Yes, you guessed it. I slipped and down into the river I fell. Fortunately, I fell into shallow waters. The older boys, some of whom did not realize that “the little nuisance” was following them, turned and rescued me and returned me to my not so happy mother.

Of course, being soaked and mother, not having brought a change of clothing for me, and confident that I would get a deadly cold, frail as I was, took me back the bus where she had a change dress for herself and promptly forced me to change into that woman’s dress. That was the end of my fun for the day. Even food and deserts no longer appealed to me. I just wanted to go home.

To me, that day’s experience which remains etched in my memory after 87 years is even more even more complicated than East of Bridge Village and across Muddy Trail.

Ma 10, 2026