A Rain of Frogs

When I was little, or at least littler, I had a hard time grasping how television schedules worked. I did not understand that the television guide could tell you what show was on when.

In essence, I believed that television programs came on randomly.

So, suffice it to say that when one of my favorites came on, I was completely unmovable from the television set. My attention could not be pried from the screen.

There were a few shows that I was more than a bit fond of that never came on enough, and today, I suddenly remembered what one of them was called.

The Secret Railroad.

What a bizarre show, as were many of the Canadian made shows that first debuted in french and were later brought to the english market. The show featured Simon, a boy who finds the railway in the basement of his apartment building. You could always count on TVO to appeal to a kid that lived in an apartment building.

Simon would embark on a grand adventure with the train, stopping to pick up Mr. Passenger, and Mr. Passenger’s cat, called Melanie. Further down the line, deeper into the adventure, came Stella.

Stella. What a girl. She played a different role in each episode. Great hair too. I admit perhaps a slight crush on this enigmatic young lady.

Anyway, this trip down memory lane has reached its final destination. If you ever get a chance to experience the Secret Railroad, check it out. I loved the hell out of it, but never got to see enough of it because I never knew when it was coming on.

The old man stood under the low autumn bows of trees, framed by red and yellow and orange leaves. Out in the distance across the lake rose the low, rolling foothills of mountains, barely visible in the morning fog.

He wasn’t a large man, but vital, stocky. He moved deliberately, alternately leaning down close to the surface before him and straightening up again, bringing his critical eye to a point where he could see the whole ebb and flow of the work.

He’d once been a small god, or an angel perhaps, but no more. He’d once believed he had to be more than a man, more aware, more alive, but that was long ago, before he’d met her. Now he was only a man.

His eye ran over the swooping curves in front of him, tracing the fine, compound lines of wood that made up the wide, flat hull of the boat he was working on. About his head swirling sawdust and eddies of breath danced brownian waltzes.

The boat was finished. He had built it for her. Later, they’d sail, in the mid-morning sun, with only the sound of breeze stretching canvas and water caressing the slack sides of the craft. But for now there was still work to do.

He went about rigging the craft. It was slow work, he was not so strong nor fast as he’d once been, so he took his time. Parts previously unconnected became linked, bound by hemp line and love.

He paused, only a moment, to reflect on love. The love that keeps a boat floating long after she should sink, that keeps her going on long after she should have given up. Not a new idea. An old one that made him smile every time it plied its course across the dark pool of his thoughts.

Later they sailed across the lake. Sunbeams, now low and lazy, cut through the sky and water, throwing a riot of light across the canvas sail. He kept one hand on the tiller and the other on the sheet, pulling the sail in. Making the boat go.

She sat beside him, wrapped in a blanket against the cool autumn breeze. He admired her smile and the sparkle in her eye the same way he had run his eyes over the compound curves of the hull earlier, and thought of the way she kept him going. Not by any action, no hands on sheets or tillers. Just by being.

Once he’d been a god, more than a man. Love had prevented him from sinking, had kept him going long after he would have given up. But now he was a man. More than a god.

Okay, this is terribly sad. I need to make absolutely sure everyone understands that I find birth defects of any kind painfully sad. And I know what I’m talking about.

My oldest son was born with a fused suture in his head. This is called Cranial Synostosis and necessitated some ridiculously serious cranial surgery at the ripe age of ten months. In effect, the talented team of doctors at the Sick Kids Hospital in Toronto pulled his face down like a rubber mask and took his skull apart like a puzzle and rebuilt it. I know, they showed me the pictures.

That aside, I just read a story about a child that was born with one eye in India. A cyclops. In fact suffering from a condition knows as cyclopia.

It appears that the cause was a chromosomal shift caused by exposure of the mother to a drug that is considered a possible cancer treatment.

And this is the part where I go to hell, because I find this ironic in a way that normal irony cannot come close to. This has the hand of the godess Irony (but not her twin sister Poetic Justice) written all over it.

The drug is called, and I do NOT make this up, Cyclopamine.

Sometimes is never quite enough
If you’re flawless, then you’ll win my love
Don’t forget to win first place
Don’t forget to keep that smile on your face

Be a good boy
Try a little harder
You’ve got to measure up
And make me prouder

How long before you screw it up
How many times do I have to tell you to hurry up
With everything I do for you
The least you can do is keep quiet

Be a good girl
You’ve gotta try a little harder
That simply wasn’t good enough
To make us proud

I’ll live for you
I’ll make you what I never was
If you’re the best, then maybe so am I
Compared to him compared to her

I’m doing this for your own damn good
You’ll make up for what I blew
What’s the problem …...
why are you crying

Be a good boy
Push a little farther now
That wasn’t fast enough
To make us happy

We’ll love you just the way you are
if you’re perfect

—
Perfect, Alanis Morissette.

Poignant. Perfect.

We are too weak to disappoint.