There's a frog in my coffee cup.

But it's doing all right. A ceramic frog attached to the bottom of a ceramic mug. A gift from my father many years ago, packed away in a box during a move, and unseen until recently. I've begun using it again, and it brings back a lot of memories. I'd half forgotten his sense of humor, his appreciation of the absurd, and had totally forgotten how much I miss it. And him. Delving back further into those memories, I recall that when I was in grade school he was always "threatening" to put fried grasshoppers in my lunchbox.

And one time he did. A flat green can filled with black fried grasshoppers. They caused quite a commotion in the lunchroom. I took half a bite of one and nearly threw up; Bill Christopherson, a strapping farm kid, ate two of them sandwiched between two potato chips. Then the teacher took them away.

He loved the Rocky and Bullwinkle show for its sly humor, and proudly wore the "Wassamatta U" sweatshirt bought him, though he would never buy such a thing for himself.

He was a good man, and like most kids (I hope) I took him for granted, didn't listen too much to his memories, and knew almost nothing of his inner hopes and no doubt frustrated dreams. As usually happens, during my teen years and early 20s I moved away from him, physically and personally. Fortunately we mended bridges well before he passed away.

He was a good man, and tonight I'll raise a toast to him with my ceramic frog.