The philosophy of Frogism.

One time, when I was small child, a friend of mine and I beat frogs to death with red, plastic shovels after a rain storm, mid-afternoon on a Saturday. It was just one of those things that you do when you’re a kid.

I was never a particularly violent child. Though, perhaps I skirted the state line of crazy for a band of years during my adolescence, like, ages Birth to Present…but, believe me, it’s in our blood.  I’ve managed to escape, cleanly enough so far, and that’s it’s own definition of success.

To this day, I pray for those frogs’ souls, though.

And, for good measure, I will not eat frog legs.  (But, that’s hardly penance since I wouldn’t have eaten them anyway).

I’m not even sure why I even thought it would be a good idea to kill those frogs, in the first place; I felt the same about Karyn White’s one hit single and tight-rolling jeans, but all the same, I bought the cassette tape and locked my denim firmly above my ankles every day for an entire year. And, of course, I picked up that shovel.

The things we do just to do them.

The opposite now has become a personal truism: I adore animals, all kinds, to the point of choosing them often over people, even in fictional terms. For instance, I felt so sorry for Jenny (the mule) in Richard Wright’s short story, “The Man Who Was Almost a Man,” that I ached for her as if the story were true, as if she’d been my mule. I began to question why I should even make my students read this story.  Despite it’s beauty and local color, why should they be subjected to such a piteous, if accidental, murder?  What was the point?

Uncle Larry said, “Because that’s what happened.  And happens still.” 

I said, “I don’t know of one person who has killed a mule. Ever.”

“Mules, men, what’s the difference,” he said.

And that right there is the hook. There really isn’t a difference, is there?  Except this: Wright’s lesson was made up, or at the least, embellished to achieve, elicit, a response from the reader.

But, I killed those frogs, that Saturday, without any point at all, without any reason whatsoever.  Just because.

It’s been a haunting flaw in my personality ever since, so entrenched a flaw that even publishing a poem about it didn’t erase the memory. 

frogism 

when we were fat

but never full,

& eleven years old

with cartoons,

& jelly,

& biscuits,

& sugar

& molasses

& butter

after Saturdays that

were just as fat

& never full

with rain,

the frogs

would pop up

& sit

on top of rocks,

in the drippings

& we would,

in our sugar high,

drag the shovels

from the mower shed

& sneak up

on the frogs

& beat them

flat until the

metal had gone

through the frog

& was only

hitting rock,

it’d be that

certain racket

that drove

Momma mad,

but she’d say, oh

boys are

being boys,

& that Christmas

is when Daddy

bought

us guns,

I never knew a shovel could do that to a kid, that such a rudimentary yard tool could carry so deep a scar, but this one did. I grew up in and at the speed of one swing of a shovel, and years later, when I realized that’s where the callouses between my thumbs and forefingers had come from, I saw that it was ugly and made handshakes just too difficult, and prayer nearly impossible.

Whatever thy hand findeth to do.

I didn’t want to be that kind of man. I wanted to be able to shake hands; to wave, at will; to be forgiven.     

For the longest time, I thought I’d simply have to keep writing until that happened.  I thought, Maybe that’s why we write at all – we’re driven to prove our worth, and what makes us worthy of being forgiven. I thought, Or, maybe that’s just me. 

Sometimes, it’s the art of retrospect, which for me comes with writing, that puts things in clear and plain perspective, regardless of where those things originate: whether in childish fancies, or neglect and abuse, or in innocent game-playing, or in absolute, all-out, and terrible sincerity.

I’ve learned what matters is that you know enough to recognize the origin, the root.

Like, today. 

Today, I’m sitting in a hospital, the cancer wing, with one of my favorite people on this earth, as she endures, with a grace and patience that must come directly from the laughter of the Good Lord Himself, is my hands-down best guess, yet another chemo treatment.

Me, I sit in over the corner, speechlessly typing this day’s blog, surrounded by several IVs and boxes of hypoallergenic gloves and needles and biohazard receptacles as red and plastic as that shovel was, sitting with every medical fear of the ages one could imagine, underneath the TV, the one, mechanical hand held out to anything I recognize beyond these white walls, I’m sitting here observing in her a soft and quiet strength that is so holy it causes me to pray, instantly.

Nothing I’ve ever done is as important as this moment, and it’s not because I’m here, in the role of a friend, but because she’s allowed me to see the price her plea for Job has cost.  She’s letting me see where it comes from, and my God, it’s a lot:  the loss and pain, the fear and worry, the reminder. 

I’m sure she’d rather you could get it at Target. 

But, it doesn’t ebb her peace of mind. 

And that’s when I’m truly reminded of the Whole Point , as the second IV bag empties, and she wonders what would work for a late lunch?, and I ask her if Mexican food for a late lunch would work, it hits me:  When all else fails, and you can’t write yourself to forgiveness, you can always ask.  I forget that, time and time again. Because,  if you’re like me, you feel awkward talking out loud in a hospital. If that’s the case, though, remember – you can just sit quietly in the corner and watch it in action, too. 

It’s going to hurt your eyes, at first, know that upfront. But after the glare of the panegyric fades, what you see, finally, in the end-glow is fairly nearly Damascan. 

It’s what you’ve been looking for all along – redemption.