The Bull Frogs Exist

Wow....what a night. Last evening, George and I took a ride around...no particular place in mind, but I asked him to drive down by the house I lived in as a child on Deerhaunt Drive. The last time I was there, as I mentioned in a previous entry, I discovered how small everything had seemed compared to my childhood perception and last night was no exception. However, what an interesting stop it ended up being. I convinced George to park the truck on the side of the road (even though there was a young couple watching every move we made), because I wanted to walk down by the "ponds." As we started down the dirt road, the couple followed us and asked us if we were looking for something....humm..."not many people stop by these parts, mister." I explained that I had lived here as a child and the young woman's face lit up and asked me the years. When I told her that I lived there from 1956 to 1962 she informed me that her dad lived here at that time also. Her dad turned out to be Bob Tall, son of real estate "baron," Aram S. Tall. Bob was my brother, John's age and Bob's sister, Flossie, (yes, I am not kidding) was close to my age. We talked about the house I lived in (the tan duplex), the house her dad lived in as a child (the little red house) and the ponds. Her husband told George and I that Bob had given them the little red house as a wedding gift and they were in the process of renovations. They asked us to follow them to take a look. As we walked between the ponds, I began to tell stories about how I skated on it, caught polliwogs and evan swam in it. I told them the story about the snapping turtles - a story they had heard, but were skeptical of until I confirmed the fact that a very large snapper had gotten caught in the drain pipe when the ponds were being dredged. My grandfather stuck a shovel into the pipe trying to push the turtle through and the turtle snapped the wooden shovel handle in two. I told them about listening to the bullfrogs and they told me they still croak. I was amazed! The husband told me to just look at the edge of the pond - and sure enough, there they were. I could have reached down and picked one up, but settled on leaning over real close to let my teardrops make circles in the water. What a feeling - to see them again. I had forgotten their greenish-brown color and bulging eyes. They seemed as big to me now as when I was a child, so my perception of the frogs was untainted. Also in the pond were dozens of descendants from the gold fish that were thrown in back in the 60's. I can't believe they are still surviving in the pond. What an ecosystem that pond is. The couple said they cleared out quite a bit of overgrowth and want to preserve both of them.

We walked down the dirt road to look at their new home - still painted red. We listened to their plans for the house as well as to their hopes and dreams for the future. I left there confident that someone would love that place as much as I had and that new memories would be made that will last a lifetime. Life goes on, some things change, but I was glad to see that bullfrogs remain, happily existing, not only in my mind, but in my childhood backyard.

The Rain

I wrote this poem (?) back in 2001. It was after a sensational summer thunderstorm that summoned old memories of my long-lost friend, Roseann Fusco. She was our landlord's daughter and just one year older than me. We were friends from 1965 until 1970. I have searched the Internet for her, to no avail, but will keep trying with the hope of discovering where she is, what she is doing and see if she remembers me - and the rain. It is amazing what a sound, a scent or a taste can evoke. Here is what I wrote after the "rain" way back in 2001. It rained last night and I thought of you. As I closed my eyes and listened to the rhythmic drumming of the raindrops on the roof, I remembered, so vividly, our fascination with the rain. We especially loved the thunderstorms. I recalled running down the stairs to your apartment where we sneaked out onto the covered porch of the house on Putnam Street. Excitedly, we huddled under a blanket and eagerly awaited the first flash of lightning to pierce the sky. After each bolt our count would begin, "one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand..." In unison, we would squeal in delight when the crack of thunder struck. I can so clearly recall the cool, fresh scent of the air that the rain heralded. A cleansing rain, a rain so hard that it washed our chalked hopscotch boxes from the sidewalk. Steam rose from the cement roadway and everything seemed clean and fresh again. Over thirty years have passed and I wonder, "Do children still play that game anymore?" It rained last night. I sat by my window and thought of you. It was a hard, steady rain. The kind that could erase a chalked hopscotch box from the sidewalk. Steam rose from the blacktop street. A tear, bittersweet, fell from my eye for days and friends long-gone. Then, a flash of lightning split the sky. I began to count, "one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand." When the thunder rumbled, I thought of you and wondered if you were close enough to hear it, and if so, did you remember too? Roseann, I hope to find you someday.

Keeping a secret

Keeping a secret has never been one of my best strengths. I have the clearest memory of early Christmas', much to my mother's dismay, where I blurted out to my father that he was getting slippers for Christmas. I remember one holiday shopping trip, specifically, where we bought the usual Christmas gift (brown, moccasin style slippers) and my mom told me not to tell my dad what we got because we want him to be surprised. It was to be "our secret." I must have promised, because my mom and dad were quite disappointed when, as soon as he arrived home from work that night I blurted out, "We didn't get you slippers for Christmas today." I saw the exasperation in my mother's face, and argued my point that "I hadn't told him we GOT him slippers, I told him we DIDN'T get him slippers," so I actually felt that I kept the secret.

Anyway, on Christmas Eve, my dad smiled at me and my mom when he opened his Christmas gift and put on his slippers. He looked surprised and said they were "just what he needed."

I did get to keep one secret that my mom had asked of me. It was the winter of 1965 and we were sitting at the kitchen table when she said something she was afraid I would repeat. I remember her looking me in the eye so seriously and asking me to keep it a secret so as not to hurt someone's feelings. She probably didn't sleep for weeks, worrying that I would give her away. Well, before I had the chance (I was terrible at keeping secrets, remember) my mom suddenly passed away. Forty-five years later and that not-so-dirty little secret has never fallen from my lips. There have been so many times that I wanted to tell someone this story, but I am afraid I would weaken and spill the beans. The person the secret was meant to protect has since died and there really isn't any reason to keep it anymore, except the fact that it is the only remaining bond I have with my mother. Whenever I think back on "our secret." I remember how disappointed she was with the "slipper incidents." I wouldn't, couldn't risk that... Her secret is safe with me. I think she would be proud.