eno

i pity the frog who comes within arm's reach of emerson.

we fished the eno this evening; or rather: i fished; emer frogged.

but at first we waded; or rather: i waded, flycasting with one arm while holding emer in the other. then we came to a gravelly spot on a bank that was hopping with frogs. "down." i put him down. soon he had a frog in each hand, which is, by the way, the definition of heaven when you are two years old and a boy.

i left him to his frogging and waded out to fish a little. caught a few bream, or "brim," as they say around here.

emerson soon came wading out into the river, singing and happy as could be, waving a stick in one hand and frog in the other. then the stick became a spear that he jabbed at imaginary fish, and soon he lost his balance, slowly tilting back onto his bum, now in water up to his neck with terror in his eyes and a whimper in his throat. i scooped him up. he still had the frog in his hand.

i waded back upstream, dripping wet, casting (one-arm) here and there. we reached the other bank by where the car was parked, but emer wasn't ready to go. he was having too much fun throwing his frog in the river and watching him swim back to shore for another toss. boy, how he'd laugh.

a couple more brim to poke in the eye and let go, a few more toss-and-swims for the frog, and then he was ready to say good-bye to the frog, to the river reflecting the setting sun, and then on back to home, asleep before we got there, dreaming, no doubt, of ketching frogs.
-sept. 3