My mother came to visit from Grand Rapids, Manitoba with my sister Melissa and my nieces, Lydia who is six months pregnant and Raven who would turn 13 during their stay. I told my brother over the phone, "It's nice to have someone from out west come and see the beautiful little life that we have here."
Earlier, I had told our oldest sons Bear and Adam that I was happy that we were having visitors when our home was at peaking in cuteness factor. The boys had just finished replacing the shingles on the roof, spring cleaning had been successful, the yard was trim and the flowers and garden bountiful and blooming.
Yes, we had our junk pile hidden behind the three sister Cedars. Yes, if anyone swung open the door to the sugar shack it looked like recycling done by hoarding.
But on a sunny July day with popular trees floating puffs of fluff in the air and the birds and frogs singing, our little home back in our little bit of bush looks like it could be made out of ginger bread.
It was a wonderful visit full of love and laughter. In evenings the frogs are really starting to sing. They all begin to sing. It's louder. Than it has been for a while. My mother mentions the sound. I tell her that it's much, much louder earlier in the year.
Still the sound continues to build. It never reaches that noise level of the early summer but for the middle of July, it's impressive. Of course, they sing all summer but we never had to close the door choosing no breeze for a quieter room on a hot July night. Not that I can remember.
The day before my mother leaves to return to the North she tells me, "You have some kind of Chief Frog out there." I ask her what she means.
She says, "You know the Head One. The Boss."
I see my old friend Aneegis in my mind and I nod in agreement.
After everyone is gone. The yard and house are tidy. The pool toys are put away and the pool is clean and shut down for the night. The wife is in the house. I'm sitting in a lawn chair reading the Sunday edition of the Toronto Star. The only newspaper we buy these days and only the Sunday edition.
I'm reading the Sports section first as always. I hear a sound from the bush behind me. It sounds like a bird of some kind. Maybe even a squirrel. The sounds are complex. Jazz like.
It ends. Silence. For a heartbeat.
Then the sound starts again. I can not place this sound. This series of distinct and complex chirps, bleets and croaks. Croaks.
A response croak from the pool. One on the side nearest me. Then one on the side furthest.
The frogs have been singing in the pool all summer. They aren't going anywhere. I knew their sound as soon as I heard it.
The response from the bush behind me was the same croak as the frogs in the pool.
Aneegis croaked and they responded.
Aneegis croaked and they responded.
Aneegis croaked and they responded.
