By Lynn Sunday
Some childhood experiences are never forgotten. They’re the ones that shock us to the core—the ones that we carry inside and that shape, change, and mold us into who we become.
In 1954, I was 8 years old and lived with my parents in a New York suburb called Continental Village. Homes there were built on half-acre lots, with an empty lot or two between houses, which were clustered around a pine-fringed artificial lake. I loved to wander there on hot summer days when the air was thick with moisture and my skin prickled with sweat. It was cool beneath the trees, and the ground around them was a carpet of pine needles. The air was thick with their scent.
On the day that I will never forget, I crossed the street from my house and entered the forest, following a path leading down past a neighbor’s house, which was right on the water. I was lost in thought, skipping along, making up stories in my head, and singing under my breath. Then I stopped short, because in a sun-dappled clearing near the shore, I saw two boys who looked as big as grown men to me. They were torturing a bullfrog with a lit cigarette.
The frog was enormous, greenish-brown, with a great white stomach, strong legs, and webbed feet that he desperately kicked at his tormentors. The animal screamed—a long, drawn-out bellow of agony. I stood numb with shock, barely breathing, rooted to my spot in the shadow of the trees. For the first time in my life, the pain of another became my own.
The boys had not seen me. They were down near the lakeshore, where the neighbors docked their rowboat—but I could see them clearly in the afternoon sunlight. And nothing in my safe, comfortable suburban life with my kind, loving parents had prepared me to comprehend cruelty for its own sake. The frog screamed again and again—and the boys laughed.
And in my mind I became Wonder Woman and charged into the clearing, zapping the evildoers with my magic bracelets, flinging them to the ground—and cradling the poor injured frog in my hands as I rushed him back to the water’s edge for a chance of recovery. But in reality, I was a timid, overprotected little girl, who stood, unnoticed, frozen in fear of what boys such as those might do to me if I interfered. Leaving the poor creature to his fate, I ran, sobbing, home to my mother, where I allowed myself to be comforted.
It took a long time for me to forgive myself for what I saw as cowardice on my part. Over time, the memory of the frog seemed to fade. Still, more than 35 years later, when asked why I was moved to speak out for animals, the image of that frog came immediately to mind.
“I have a debt to pay,” I said.
Lynn Sunday’s personal stories have appeared in a variety of publications, including multiple volumes of Chicken Soup for the Soul, Six Hens literary magazine, and other publications. A PETA member for nearly three decades, Lynn was mentioned in PETA Times in 1997 after she drove the Carson & Barnes Circus from her town of Half Moon Bay. She has volunteered at Bay Area schools, clubs, and organizations as a speaker on issues of compassion.
