Exit 148

I wrote this 4 years ago. I have fewer functioning brain cells now than I did then, and even if I live to 80 (unlikely), I have but 31 Junes left. My son is on his way back from Atlantic City today. He's a very, very good poker player. My Dad enjoyed the idea that his son practiced medicine at all, and especially enjoyed that I practiced in the projects. I enjoy the idea that my son is a very, very good poker player. My clanfolk tend to be bright--good thing, because we also tend to make dubious choices. But in a world where lightning bugs exist, what else can we do but dance, sing, drink, and die?

Today is Father's Day. My youngest is 17 years old. Today we went afroggin'! Our trip started with a long day's journey seeking a fishing license. Blue laws combined with my sensational lack of sense of direction resulted in a good afternoon's worth of conversation with my son as we got lost between stores. My son Kevin had better things to do on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon. Miles and miles later, and dollars and dollars lighter, my son and I were vested by the good State of New Jersey with the power to legally harvest frogs, though harvesting more than 15 per day would require yet another (no doubt with a more formal font and maybe even gold lettering) license. Kevin raised an interesting philosophical point. Our goal was tadpoles, not frogs. At what point did the good State of New Jersey consider a tadpole to be a frog? We await the Supreme Court's opinion, though at the moment, they seem to be busy defining when an embryo becomes a human. Meanwhile, we paid our bucks and attached our new yellow pieces of paper to our bodies, hoping our choice of locations was conspicuous enough to be legally conspicuous, as required by law. New Jersey has had a drought the prior two springs--catching tadpoles still required mucking through knee-deep mud, but ponds were smaller, and the tadpoles, quite frankly, were too preoccupied by a receding world to fear the likes of me. This year, however, the odds have been altered. We have seen a deluge that rivals that of Noah. The tadpoles have the advantage. They took advantage of their advantage. Through some twist of fate, our Second Annual Tadpole Hunt fell on the same day as some North Jersey Latin American Festival at our favorite tadpole stomping grounds, Branch Brook Park in Newark, New Jersey. My son was a good sport. 'Twas, after all, Father's Day. Still, the spectacle of an Anglo (his mother's blood, not mine) and a Celt tromping through the mud chasing tadpoles entertained some folks who had wandered from the festival, and my son started to look a little embarrassed. The water is deeper this year--the tadpoles saw us coming, and we were left with nothing but mud in our nets. We left without a tadpole. Our small backyard pond will be silent this summer, unless a visitor decides to make this his home. I am left with the fond memories of a young man who weighs more than me chasing tadpoles. I may not be so lucky ever again. I am just thankful I got to do this one more time. At least until a grandchild arrives.

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