Frogs in Pockets
When my dad was about 5-years old (as he tells it, so mid 1940s) he lived in downtown Phoenix, not too far from the Salt River. Now I don’t know my grandparents’ parenting style was especially hands-off or if this was normal, but my dad was allowed to roam the neighborhood just as long as he didn’t go to down to the Salt River. Well one lazy summer day after a rainstorm he was out with his friends and they went down to the Salt River. They were playing with the crawdads (AZ term for freshwater lobster) and other aquatic life in the pools left after the rain.
When he came home, he was late and covered in mud. So my granddad asked him where he was. My dad told him and granddad said, “Well you know you’re not supposed to do that. I’m gonna have to spank you.” As my granddad took off his belt, my dad started bawling and said, “Wait till I get the frogs out.” “What? Out of where?” asked granddad. And my dad put his hands in his pockets and pulled out lots of young frogs, and did it again. About the third time my granddad just started laughing, as my young dad just kept on finding more frogs in all his pockets.
He never did get that spanking.
He always told that story of the German POWs interned in Phoenix who did not realize the Salt River was a seasonal river (The Great Papago Escape). I never gave it much thought and maybe even wondered if it was a tall tale, until about a month after he died, I heard the story on a podcast. Turns out my dad was right.