My neighborhood today does not have a single bridge. And we had three ... more precisely, one bridge and two "bridges".

Two were used to cross the dark river called the "canal", and one bridged the clear ridge stream that, who knows why and how, went down to the industrial zone. The bridge across the stream led straight to the school and, accordingly, it was very often the place of our calculations. A gentleman who would, instead of having a wide necktie for brutal methods, be better equipped by the swastika, would regularly feel prominent in resolving extramarital conflicts, and would shorten his short legs to the brink and effectively solve the problem. So between the confused fishes that were not clear about what they were doing in Kozari Boku, they often called a dummy, a notebook, or even a whole bag that the "diva" would be thrown into the stream. After scam, clear ...

From the other bridge, that pre-channel, from Kozari Puteva we went to "the city". To see the light fairy you had to go through the masculine exam and step on the shrubbery, the wooden and the full trul bridge. It seemed to me because I imagined that I was Indiana Jones, who with a whip in his hands wanted to go to a haunted temple, although the special challenge was a bushing tube, also broken through the canal:

"Come on, Snježana! If you run too fast, you will not feel bake, "Mladen and Dražen from my street mourned on the other side, heroes who crossed the pipe holes, from which it would occasionally break hot, and beneath which the muddy, black water ran.

After this cowardice resignation for a punishment I was briefly excised from the dripping, and in rotten hooves for days I was - a kobila.

Except for two bridges (and the tub I, I do not know why, had touched this memory) was the bridge. Quite serious, with a very serious role ... He joined Kozari Bok and Kozari Puteva. Yeah, yeah ... That's the one from which Pacov and Munja were slaughtered in the canal, so they only live alive. Although we waited for days to get rid of the chemicals and feces in the mutants, long ago acquired immunity to bacteria did theirs so they grew into normal people.

If you thought for a moment that this district was worse than that Hollywood because there's no Clint Eastwood, you've made a mistake. You're not right even if you thought Clint might be the director-general at the beginning of the story. The real clint hid in the character of a certain Genzić, the owner of most of the land where Kozari Putevi was born. So we were the kids from 70's unprecedented ice that he little bit of parcelized and sold it called Genzic's meadow. Well, in this meadow, our parents had the habit of taking the game, and they would take a swim on the weekends, so they would turn them into a picnic. But Genzic did not let the "settlers" invade his uninhabited country. True, I was too small to memorize it, but my sister still recounts that Genzic would have touched on an undisturbed horse, and his rifle had a rifle from the meadow.

This Clint Eastwood, besides having possessions, rifles and horses, was afraid and trembling with unwanted guests with dandelion bags and badminton rackets.

"Ide Genzic," someone would shout, and then a warning shot would be followed, after which a packet and a panic escapade came up. The inflexible, armed rider then did not even think that hundreds of houses would be covered by the 80 meadow at the beginning, and we would soon be left without an excursion site.

Although I'm not sure that Gencić saw anything romantic in our three bridges, and I do not believe that by his horsemanship I was surprised by what Meryl Streep of Kozara Puteva tells me, the author of the Bridge County Madison was inspired by this ambassador to the horse and our bridges . When I think a little bit, I'm even sure that this story about Kozara Puteva has been told in one of Hollywood's controversies for which this writer came up with the idea of ​​writing the work that celebrated it!

Despite everything, I'm sorry.

For bridges.


And Genzic who died and did not know how Clint Eastwood was playing.

Author: Snježana Vučković