Frog Legs

When I was in San Diego last weekend, Sandi asked me what my earliest memory is. I told her that I remembered getting my hair caught in the end of my bed. I think it was the old crib. But the thing I remember the most is frog legs in Vancouver, BC.

This is a family memory. Jeff mentioned it this weekend. I was seven, we'd taken a bus up to Canada to visit Dad's aunt and uncle in a nursing home in British Columbia. Along the way a nice man who was sitting next to me got to experience my joy as I pulled out one of my teeth. How disconcerting that must have been for him. But in my memory, he has always been "that nice man."

This was one of the rare trips for my family where we actually stayed in a hotel and got to eat every meal out. At one meal, I ordered frog legs. Now you know why we didn't eat out often. Before the meal arrived, I went to the restroom. And got locked in. I don't know if I pounded on the door. Or screamed. Or cried. Surely I did all of those. Eventually, someone came to rescue me.

When I got to the table, my frog legs had been eaten by my brothers. I think Mom may have spared one for me. One little, tiny frog leg. Memorable.

This morning I decided to lock the bathroom door. We never do. I don't know why I did. And I got locked in. Adrian was asleep. I had no glasses with me, so I couldn't sit and read and wait for him to get up. So this time I pounded on the door. I screamed. I cried. Oh, and I laughed.

Finally Adrian got up and somehow got the door open. I rushed out and buried my head on his chest, laugh-crying, "frog legs."