Open Writing

When my son was a little boy, my neighbor used to accuse me of babying him. I used to take the lad along the upper reaches of the Canning River, show him how jilgies often lurked in old submerged soft drink cans, and how to spot leeches moving towards him.

My neighbor said,”He’ll soon be six years old. He needs a bike.”

This thoroughly alarmed my wife. We lived on a narrow road, much patched though still potholed, on the hills side of the river at Kelmscott.

“I don’t want him on a bike,” my wife told me. “I’d be terrified for him.”

I said,” He’s never asked for a bike. We don’t have bikes. We’re not a bike family.”

My wife said, “We go everywhere by car and he’s with us most of the time.”

I put the problem to my son, without mentioning the subject of bicycles.

“What would you like for a birthday present, Leon?”

“When’s my birthday again?” he asked.

“This coming Saturday,” I said.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he said, “I’d like a frog for a present.”

My wife and I were speechless. That night it rained.

“Grab a bucket and two plastic bags,” I told my son.

“Why?” he said.

“We’re going frogging.”

With his Mum in the front passenger seat, and me driving, we set off into the wet night. The little boy had the back seat to himself, with his bucket, plastic bags and a set of old rubber gloves no longer required for the washing up.

We hadn’t gone far when a frog appeared in the headlights, sitting at the nearside of the road. I braked and stopped the car. I opened the back nearside door and said to Leon, “Quick, after it. Follow that frog.”

He jumped out into the rain with a plastic bag and ran up to the frog which was dazzled by my headlights. He grabbed the frog and ran back to the car. Within half a mile, another frog was spotted in the headlights. I braked, stopped, and opened the door. “There’s another one – after it.”

Out he scrambled, heedless of the wet night, ran to the second frog, bagged it and ran back to the car. We turned for home.

“That was quite a successful exercise,” I said.

My wife replied, “I’m not sure.”

She turned around and looked at our son, dripping in the back seat. I turned, too.

“How do you feel about it, Leon?”

The little face was beaming and glistening with raindrops.

“Dad,” he said. “With a frog in each hand, I feel rich.”

He’s forty now. His daughter had her fifth birthday recently. I gave her a tadpole in a jar.

“Grand Dad,” she said. “I love you.”