FROGS

We were down in the Peace River valley, just at the Dunvegan Bridge when I heard them—frogs chanting—a mantra for rest, and country and peace.
“I haven’t heard enough frogs in my life,” I said to David. I was thinking nostalgically about the farm, about long childhood evenings on the east porch listening to the frogs in the slough half a mile away. The memory was fragrant, idyllic, completely devoid of mosquitoes, which means it probably was not an accurate memory.
“We’ll have to move to the country then,” said David. He said it with a smile. He said it with the confidence of one who knows he is on safe ground. There are no city buses in the country, no taxis you can afford. My love affair with the frogs would last only until the first time I wanted to go out and had nobody to drive me. They say you can’t take the country out of a country girl, but in my case, they are wrong. We went back to the city.
At home the next evening I opened our north bedroom window. I listened. I listened again. There it was, the chant of frogs, loud enough to be heard over the din of traffic on Jasper Avenue just above us, loud enough to be heard over the hum of the cars and buses crossing Dawson Bridge. I listened in wonder. Is it possible to wish frogs into existence? It is our sixth summer in this house, six open-windowed summers. We are near the river, but not the marsh. We hear gulls, ducks, geese and boats but never once in six years had I heard any frogs.
I mentioned the frogs to David. I could see he had his doubts. But the next night, when they were there again, I made him come to listen. “Frogs,” he affirmed.
“There,” I said. “Now we don’t have to move.”
It’s a good thing I made him listen, because that was the last night they chanted. I didn’t want to mention them again. I went back to Turner Classic Movie Channel, where they play a lot of old movies with frog soundtracks.
This has been a hectic spring. Three weekends in a row I travelled to Calgary. It rained. The first weekend’s rain didn’t bother me much because I was working. The second weekend’s rain didn’t bother me too much after the bride moved the wedding indoors, abandoning her plans for an outdoor wedding at Heritage Park with prenuptial champagne on the midway. The third weekend’s rain wasn’t so bad given that its bride’s family had procured tents for her outdoor wedding. Yes, they’ve had a lot of rain in Calgary.
Because of the rain, the vacant industrial land outside the Sandman Airport Hotel where we stayed last weekend was drenched and waterlogged. Oblivious to the cool wet weather, our room was airless and hot. So we were please to find that, unlike most hotels, its windows could be opened. No sooner was the window open than I heard them—a chorus of frogs, sounded like dozens of them. All night long they sang and most of the next day. When the sky cleared after the wedding they sang beneath the round full moon—a song of rest, peace and celebration. The music went on all night. I had to go home just to get some rest.
I still haven’t heard enough frogs in my life. But we’re getting there.