THE WHITE FROG

Nothing happens around here. I walk on this road twice a day, past open fields, woods, hills and large wetlands. The sky changes from a bright blue to a dark grey depending on what nature has in store. There are rumors that bears have returned but all I see are deer, raccoons, skunks, possum, foxes, vultures and an assortment of other animals and birds. I see a large, dark green, gleaming frog hopping on flat grasses plopping into the watery abyss. It continues to hop but it becomes indistinguishable from the vegetation at water’s edge and all I hear is the crackle and rustle of the old reeds being whipped by a sudden wind.

Of course, fifty years ago, when my wife, Ruth, and I came here, I was too busy to notice the details of life. I was just pleased that we found a piece of greenery an hour’s drive from Hartford, my place of work at the architectural firm of Wells and Knowles. As an architect with fifteen years of experience, I worked fifty plus hour weeks, mostly designing and building small apartment buildings for new and thriving communities. My work was all important. Ruth was also busy as an occupational therapist and part time adjunct professor at the University of Hartford. Thankfully, we spent quality time together in our daily commute to and from Hartford and on Sundays with our daughter, Liz. We did not plan to have children but were thankful when Liz was born, though it added a layer of stress for the first half dozen years.

Mother nature has not made up her mind, is it winter or spring? Patches of snow compete against the soft, muddy earth, a flock of migratory birds are about to leave, another is about to arrive. The carcass of a slaughtered deer - half a rib cage, a partial femur bone, and some white underbelly fur - is slowly decaying in the soft earth. A short twang-like sound of a loose banjo string announces the green bullfrog and sure enough it is now hopping away from the reeds followed by a snapping turtle.

Camouflaged in mud and one giant waterlily leaf, this mediaeval looking creature advances onto the road, I’m so captivated that I lose sight of the frog. Though at a safe distance from the turtle, I’m threatened and remain frozen out of fear and curiosity. It meanders, the scaly tail dragging behind, long claws dig into the asphalt, it makes its way slowly. I worry about cars, but the snapping turtle disappears into the thick brush hugging the road. I sigh and wonder where the frog went.

“Enough for one day!”. It is getting dark, both moon and sun are visible; possibly a full moon tonight. I walk home slowly, thinking about the gleaming frog, where it disappeared to and whether it is still alive. A light flickers in the night sky, “It can’t be Venus,” I say to no one in particular, and wonder if it’s a satellite or a plane. But there are no sounds. I near home and hear my dog barking, reminding me to take him out.

Many years ago, when Liz was young, I remember the three of us would take walks on Sundays to the wetlands. It was teeming with wildlife, the water level was higher, and the excess mass flowed into the creek adjacent to the road, present even during the driest seasons. It was common to see beavers, frogs of various colors and sizes, wood ducks, coy dogs, bats, and so much more. A veritable festival of life. On summer nights sitting on the porch, exhausted, sipping bourbon, Ruth and I could hear the ongoing cacophony of crickets, frogs, grasshoppers and, in the distance, the howling and yipping of coyotes busy communicating and establishing their turf. The stark contrast between then and now makes me nostalgic. I shudder, accentuating that I’m on my own. I get home and eat indiscriminately, an unpeeled carrot and some leftover ragu, all the while I fixate on where did the bullfrogs go?

I fall asleep. I hear rustling and heavy breathing. Annoyed, I turn to see a white creature about five feet tall, fifty feet in front of me moving from the wetlands into the forest. Though our distance remains the same, the heavy breathing dissipates, replaced by the chatter of birds. Are they frightened, curious, excited about the creature? I do not know. In an area of soft grasses, it sits down on a large rock. I quietly crouch behind some brush, see wild irises, a stream next to the large rock, and hear the creature serenade this tiny ecosystem: “Rush, rush, rush the stream gurgles on, water bubbles everywhere, not a drop to waste. Purple flowers leaning hither, bathe in bubbles leaning thither, not a drop to waste. Rush, rush, rush.”

All of a sudden, the creature belches and as it does, a stream of tadpoles flows out of its wide mouth. But they are not just green or grey, they reflect the colors of the rainbow, as they wiggle and splash into the stream. The creature continues to serenade, the stream continues to gurgle, the birds continue to chatter and periodically it belches and more tadpoles dive and splash into the water. This spasmodic dance continues for more than an hour and then suddenly stops. The serenading stops, the bustling stream becomes pacific and the bird chatter ceases. Total stillness. The creature gets up and makes its way from the forest into the wetlands. Heavy breathing follows.

I wake up. The splashing water and heavy breathing swallowed by the darkness around me and I make my way to the bathroom. A new day begins. It is 5:30 am and dawn is just around the corner. I stare at my worn teeth. They remind me of the white creature and decay. The former looked remarkably like a standing frog. I make up my mind that I must find that bullfrog today.

A breakfast of oatmeal and coffee gets the adrenalin flowing and fills me with warmth. Today I decide to bring my retriever, Benji, though he doesn’t always cooperate. He wanders off from time to time, following the scents and sounds that only a dog knows - I guess I should feel fortunate that he knows to stay off the main road.

The wetlands lay in a valley probably 25 acres in size, bordered by sloping fields of corn and soybean on one side, a small marshy pine forest on another and a road dividing it from a hill. It is still early, the sun just awakened, a thin mist evaporating in front of my eyes. Benji seems ambivalent about approaching the token remains of the deer and my eyes are fixed on the reeds across the road where I last saw the bullfrog. For a moment both Benji and I appear frozen like the last pulsating scene in a reel of film and then Benji carefully approaches the skeletal remains, as I cautiously cross the road. I continue to walk for another mile or two, but my mind is still on the wetlands.

I return to find Benji gnawing on the large section of femur bone, a true banquet for any dog. This time I decide to enter the dense reeds to look for the bull frog, risking ticks, germs and other parasites. Though the ground is moist it is still firm enough to walk on and the old, dried reeds part like the red sea as I make my way towards a tiny pond with an equally tiny tree, with enormous leaves at its edge. By the size of the small pond, I surmise that farmers developed it as a drinking hole for their cows. Since no cows have grazed on this land for many years, it has become an aquatic home for Canadian geese, mallards and possibly, hopefully, some amphibians like a bullfrog. On higher ground, not too far away, I find a clutch of four eggs in a nest made from grasses, reeds, moss, branches, and thin down. Two of the eggs seem to be pulsating, ready to burst. I back away, the geese will return soon and I’m intruding. As I near the pond I hear the vibrating, droning sound of a bullfrog. I turn to see the bullfrog majestically floating on a large leathery green leaf in the middle of the pond. I am surprised to see the frog but even more surprised that it didn’t capsize. As I’m about to snap a photo on my cell phone, Benji appears proudly showcasing his big bone and the bullfrog folds into the muddy pond, disappearing. Though annoyed at my dog, I’m happy the frog survived the snapping turtle and lives for another day.

While walking home with Benji, I decide to make it my mission to visit the wetlands daily. I plan to bring a jar filled with frog food the next day: spiders, earthworms, and snails. My newfound mission is to save the creature, to somehow repopulate the wetlands with an abundance of frogs, as it was, and as it ought to be.

Back home, Benji cannot separate from his new bone even though there’s a bowl full of raw chicken wings and necks waiting. He sits next to his bowl but continues to grind his teeth on the bone. The bone resists change, indentations, and bite marks except for the edges where some marrow has been sucked away. I wonder why he’s one with the bone. I know the gnawing of the bone stimulates and nourishes him but might it also sensorially connect to an earlier time, when his ancestors hunted in packs? When dogs attacked a fleeting animal in unison, overwhelmed it and then fought each other for the cherished prize, so each could savor their own bone.

The following day couldn’t come quickly enough. Armed with a jar filled with frog food, I leave Benji at home and make my way to the wetlands. First, I go to the small pond but instead of finding the frog, I see the little yellow, greenish heads of two goslings popping up in their nest being fed. I quietly retreat and cross the road to the wetlands.

I hear the deep, loud plumping sound of the bull frog but cannot see him. I decide to leave the jar open near the water’s edge and continue my daily journey.

That night, after I fall asleep… a curtain opens and I find myself in the same brush in the forest, near the white creature sitting on a large stone. Although the birds are chattering, it sits quietly. I look at its features. Its lips are red, its bulging eyes shifting and changing in color and shape, like a gaming slot machine. It’s not wearing any clothing, its delicate body, leaning on a cane like staff. And then the creature motions for me to come forth. At first, I’m like a deer blinded by headlights and do not move but feel that I don’t have a choice and slowly, reluctantly, make my way forward. It beckons me to sit on the large rock and I do. Though the birds are still chattering, the volume is lower, and I hear the creature’s labored breathing.

“You must wonder what I am” the creature says and without waiting it continues, “I’m amphibious and though I can live on this planet, I find it harder and harder to breathe. At one time my skin was green and shiny but now it is white and scaly. I come here each spring, when the weather gets a little warmer but in the heart of winter, I’m in Miami.”

I’m spellbound and listen intently, but don’t know if I should speak.

Finally, I do, “How come you’re naked?” I ask and as I say it, I turn beet red.

The creature chuckles and says, “Actually, I feel at home here and like to be au naturel but when I’m in public I wear a three-piece suit.” With that, like a knight readying for battle he taps his staff. First his pants magically appear and wrap around him, followed by a shirt, tie, vest and jacket. The clothing is all in the same coloring, a dark, moss green. In contrast his head, four limbs, with two claws in each, are white. I’m amazed and wonder how he did it but don’t ask.

He seems to read my mind, “If I think it and tap my staff, it happens.” Suddenly the birds’ chatter ceases, the ethereal frog stands up, and leaves. Heavy breathing follows.

I wake up, calling after him, “But, what’s your name?”

Wildfires in Canada produce brown ash filled clouds. A persistent toxic rain pours for three days. Outside of food shopping, the foreboding air keeps me indoors. On the fourth day, the rain stops. Flooding on our main road connects the wetlands with the small pond, creating one water mass. The site reminds me of an estuary that I once saw on the coast of New Brunswick and my mind drifts to a vacation with Ruth when we took the ferry from Maine to the coast of Canada. My thoughts seem to undermine my clarity and for a moment I forget where I am.

Three goslings float in the pond and on the edge both parents are cleaning themselves, meticulously pulling dirt off each feather. Suddenly, I hear a raspy, grainy, screeching sound - kee-eeee-ar, kee-eeee-ar - and I worry that the frog has become a hawk’s lunch, but I see the bull frog next to the floating jar and feel relief. I release more earth worms into the muddy water and move to higher ground. Later that afternoon the waters recede and the road resurfaces, leaving scattered leaves and a single salamander as evidence of the great flood.

That evening, I get a call from my twelve-year-old grandson, Sammy. “Hi grandpa, what’re ya doing?”

“I’m feeding Benji and watching a National Geographic show about frogs. Did you know that frogs and humans share a common ancestry?”

“Really? That’s interesting. In September, when I start seventh grade, we’ll learn about frogs in earth science. Hey gramps, what are you doing this weekend? Mom and I want to visit. Is that ok?”

“Sammy, let me talk to your mom for a second,” there’s a brief pause, “…Hi Liz, how are you sweety?”

“I’m good pop. What’s up?”

“Sammy said that you two are planning to come this weekend, is that right?”

“Oh, that’s news to me - but do you mind?”

“No, the more the merrier and Benji seems to agree as well, right Benji?” And with that Benji became very animated and started to bark.

“Ok, we’ll come on Saturday morning and stay overnight, pops.”

I hang up, smiling, and pour a glass of bourbon, sit down, slowly savoring my drink. All the while petting Benji and staring straight ahead.

Each day folds into the next, I couldn’t wait to share my adventure with Sammy. He is nearly thirteen years old, bright, innocent, extremely sincere, with one foot steeped in childhood and the other in space. I wonder how many more years I have with him, as I age or before he gets caught up in the swirl or dust storm of teenage emancipation.

“Hey Gramps, where’s Benji?” Sammy said as he gets out of the car, not skipping a beat.

“Pop, I brought leftover macaroni and cheese, and I made a cherry pie this morning”.

“That’s great Liz, if the weather cooperates, I’ll grill some lamb chops for dinner, and I have loads of vanilla ice cream for the pie.” At that moment Benji appears with what looks like a white wrench protectively clenched between his teeth, the withering remains of the deer bone. “After lunch let’s walk to the wetlands, does that sound like a plan, Sammy?”

On the way up the road Sammy tells me with great enthusiasm about the nature camp in the Catskills that he will go to for the month of July. Although he attended day camps for the past two years this will be his first experience with a sleep away camp and he is looking forward to it. No doubt Liz doesn’t mind the break either.

Liz, a single child, confident, independent, loving and fiercely protective of her loved ones, always envisioned herself working with older people. No doubt her vision was partially influenced by the fact that she was born when my wife was in her early 40s and I was 45. She never chose to marry, nor were her relationships meant to be permanent. Her work at the Geriatric Community Center is all consuming, where she directs three different programs devoted to people over the age of 65 and feels fulfilled, both socially and financially. She has become friends with her colleagues and as a result, besides working at least fifty hours a week, sees them after work as well.

This means that Liz has a whole infrastructure devoted to supporting the physical needs of her son: babysitters, afterschool programs, day camps, neighbors and friends. By the time Sammy turned twelve he was a child veteran, having weathered many services and providers. So much so, that he has become more and more detached. Some of that may be attributed to the stereotypical passage into teen hood but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind seeing more of his mother. He was eager to visit me, especially since we bonded many years before.

We walk in silence for a bit, my mind active with memories of when Ruth last saw Sammy, when he was two. How proud she would be today; what reverence she would feel for this young, bubbling boy. I stumble, but catch myself, and Sammy reaches for my arm. All the while a painful smile lingers on my face.

“I had this dream, Sammy, about a five-foot white frog who visits the wetlands during warm weather,” I exclaim as we continue to walk.

At first Sammy does not respond and then he asks, “Gramps, have you had that dream often, and--and what does it mean!?”

I mull it over and then respond, “I think the creature symbolizes the decline and change of the environment, of who we are - but it might mean more than that.”

As Sammy and I near the wetlands, the weather changes from a sunny promising day into to something dark grey and sinister. The sun is now tucked behind thick rain clouds, the air becomes turbulent, and the wetland waters seem to tremor. The atmosphere is about to overflow, the vision exaggerated further by my frog dreams and Sammy’s sense of expectancy. We see an egret standing, frozen, majestically surveying the waters around it as the wind swirls and twigs and long reeds dance in the air. Suddenly, something rises out of the water. At first it looks like steam but then I see a form, a solid form, a frog. My dream frog was hovering above the muddy waters.

We stand there for a bit before talking to one another.

“Did you see that, Gramps - or did I imagine it?”

“I think I saw it too, Sammy.” Interestingly, since I had just told him my dream, I wonder if my words conjured the white frog in his mind because, I think, all I saw was steam.

“That was amazing, almost like your dream, Grandpa!”

“Sammy, too bad we didn’t bring the binocs with us. I wasn’t sure what that was.” The sun fights its way through the rain clouds, followed by light, warmth and an air of calm. This duel between light and darkness I have experienced many times and especially lately. Several croaks breach the silence, and Sammy notices the bull frog watching him from the water’s edge.

“Grandpa, look it’s a bullfrog.” And without waiting for a response, he empties my jar of earth worms and spiders a few yards from the peering frog. The frog hops near the earthy bacchanal and Sammy, his motor running high, is ready to get up close but I hold him back for fear that the frog will hop away. I walk to Sammy’s side and take a photo of him and the frog. In my mind, I already have a plan to frame the photo as a birthday gift.

I take him to see the three goslings. Two are floating in the small pond, while the third is fluttering its wings, as though about to fly.

After our sumptuous dinner of macaroni and cheese, lamb chops and a lovely green salad, washed down by a bodacious Shiraz, the three of us slump down on the couch and easy chair for a rousing game of Monopoly. By ten o’clock the wine takes its toll, Sammy owns most of the real estate on the game board, Benji is snoring away, bone tucked near his tummy - an opportune time to call it a night.

I hear the rhythmic howls of a band of coyotes. White noise, which lulls me to sleep, as I lay comatose after a stimulating and exhaustive passage of time with my grandson. Steam seems to rise from my head, delicately forming into the white frog, I wonder if what Sammy and I saw that afternoon was in fact the same…?

I hear the white frog muttering, “I’m late, I’m late,” followed by, “I hope there’s still time.” With that, he seems to glide on water as he rushes into the pine forest. I can’t keep up with him, but I can already see he’s seated on his stone throne surrounded by a wetland convention of two Canadian geese, two wood ducks, one bull frog, a beaver with an engineer’s cap, one heron with fluttering wrens over its head, at least two salamanders, a host of dragon flies, crickets, a thick stack of reeds…but I will stop here. I come closer but remain cloistered behind a decomposing fallen tree. I hear the white frog sharing information and as he does, their exuberant sounds become subdued, as though they have scattered or died. I hear him talking about the weather patterns, climate, humans and endless storms. I begin to sweat, tears burn my eyes, and I yell, “No, no, we can stop it! We can share with mother nature, smaller footprints, smaller footprints…”

--and, all of a sudden, I hear Sammy’s voice, “Grandpa, Grandpa, are you alright?!” I open my eyes to see four hovering eyes over me. Liz and Sammy stand there, concern and empathy etched on their faces.

Startled by their presence, I say, “I guess I had a bad dream or something?”

At breakfast, Liz suggests that maybe it’s time for me to either move to a senior citizen community or at minimum find a partner to share time with. Ruth died ten years ago, after a long battle with Leukemia and since then, I have had several incidents in Liz’s presence that have raised her concern. I thought I was doing very well on my own but begin to wonder whether she’s right. However, this incident had little to do with any medical issue or the fact that I fell twice while not in her presence, this was a reaction to a dream, a tragic realization that life as I know it is changing rapidly, and not for the good. But is it climate or is it me - or both?

After breakfast, Liz and Sammy bid farewell and zoom away in their Subaru wagon. Benji and I stand there in the driveway and wave and bark as they leave. I promise Liz I will consider what she said and that I will contact the Lion’s Head, a retirement community nearby.

Tiny white cottages surrounded by gravely paths and tall, majestic sugar maples and shady hemlock trees, leading to a barn-like community center, were the hallmarks of the Lion’s Head. The cottages were generally of the one-bedroom variety with kitchenettes, having bedroom windows facing south and each with a small roof covered porch. Upon reflection, the community layout was so much more inviting than the monolithic buildings I designed and built in my career as an architect. However, the uniformity of the cottages, designed to give privacy, independence and light, also smacked of conformity and predictability, which bothered me. The meticulous grounds did not suggest that traffic of any form had made use of the common areas.

“Hi, may I help you?” the administrative assistant asked, as I entered the office.

“Yes, my name is Ted Goodman and I’m curious about your community.” “By the way, where is everybody?”

With that, the assistant, named Judy, stated that the director wouldn’t return until Thursday and that it would be best if I called to make an appointment at that time. “Oh, today is shopping day and all the residents are in town”, she said. As I left, I saw a cleaning woman enter a cottage and a gaggle of men raking the gravel paths. Nothing was astray.

Driving back to the house, I wonder whether the Lion’s Head is the right place for me, or whether seeking a new soulmate might be the alternative, at least in the short term. The idea of relying on friends to hook me up with someone or becoming a regular at Bob’s Bar and Grill did not sound very appealing. Somehow a communion with nature seems more appealing than the awkward, artificial process of seeking a mate.

It’s nearly 6:00 pm and the June sky is full of sunlight as I near the wetlands. I get out of the car to have one more look at the marsh landscape before sundown. The dry reeds are gone, replaced by purple “false dragon heads” and tall brown cattail plants, making it more difficult to see the full expanse of the water’s surface. However, I do see what looks like a roof or bridge ensemble, made from various sizes of branches, mud, leaves and old reeds. No doubt the trusty work of an itinerant beaver. I also see steam rising, morphing into the white frog and coming hither…

Like a floating bubble it nears, heavy breathing is heard.

“Hello Ted, it seems we are both looking to go somewhere else.”

I’m flabbergasted but no longer afraid and so I respond, “I would rather stay, I have grown to love this area, but I’m told that it might be safer for me to be in a managed care facility. How about you?”

The white frog, wearing his three-piece suit and holding a white cane and tiny suitcase, responds, “I can no longer tolerate the air. You can hear my breathing. Even my winter sojourn in Miami no longer agrees with me. I hear New Zealand may be the last place on earth for me.”

With that, the white frog transitions into a puffy, white cloud which drifts higher and further away, becoming a small lump which I cannot swallow.

I stand there staring at the puffy white spec of a cloud, waving my hands, one stretching to reach the sky and the other wiping my tears. I’m at a crossroads, should I leave and rely on others in a managed care facility or stay, find a soulmate, and partner with the earth?

Joseph Gosler was born in the Netherlands during WWII, travelled with his family to Israel and subsequently settled with his parents and sibling in the USA. For over forty years he worked in educational settings as finance director. Upon retirement, he was encouraged to write his story. Five years ago, his memoir, “Searching for Home: The Impact of WWII on a Hidden Child”, was published by Amsterdam Publishers. The experience untapped a subterranean stream of energy and interest to continue writing. Today he writes short fiction with emphases on people who live on the margins of society, on climate change, isolation and loneliness. He lives with his wife in NYC.