Ever so often, my dad sits down and shares a story from his childhood. With his permission, he allows me to post them here. Enjoy!

Frogs & Grandpa Womeldorf &

The Measure of a Man

by John Kenton Thompson

Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you at the proper time, casting all your anxiety upon Him, because He careth for you. 1 Peter 5:6-7

And He shall wipe away every tear from their eyes; and there shall no longer be any death; there shall no longer be any mourning, or crying, or pain; the first things have passed away. Revelation 21:4

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Grandmother Edna Jones Womeldorf was almost my first mom; she was all I would early recall for initial nourishment and comfort in my very early trouble times.

My precious birth mother, Virginia Womeldorf Thompson, was almost immediately ill with the pregnancy of her third child following my birth. My Dad said when my younger brother, James Edward, was born, he was a most beautiful child with his piercing sky-blue eyes and a gentle countenance. James only lived just days following his birth due evidently to a damaged heart, and this may have contributed to my remaining with Grandma Womeldorf for a time and season.

Later and somewhat unexpectedly, though I sensed something was wrong, Grandma Womeldorf passed in 1959. And I can still remember as yesterday, sitting in the funeral home with my small arms around Grandpa Womeldorf’s large shoulders, holding him as best I could; tears flowing like rivers of water. We all cried and cried for her loss.

“Oh, Grandpa. It will be all right; it will just have to be.”

Now, Grandpa Womeldorf had a booming, bass voice, and he loved to sing God’s praises with the Sanctuary choir at the old First Methodist Church. The gift of singing, I will forever position,

cuts through to the heart of a man and gives you a glimpse of a man‘s character and station with God.

It was not surprising when he came by the house, Grandpa Womeldorf, no longer with one for guidance needed a navigator for the next trip to California. At my election, it could now be my honor to be next in this consideration.

“Oh, Grandpa. Let’s go.”

And what wonderful trip this was. With my parents’ permission, we saw the beautiful deserts of the Southwest, heard the all-night trains in Lordsburg, experienced the heat of Death Valley at the midday sun, and found California to be a beautiful land, full of wondrous surprises and strikingly beautiful and colorful contrasts.

Strangely, Grandpa disappeared for a day or two the week following our arrival at the Haines beautiful home in Santa Anna near Disneyland. I know now he went to seek out his younger brother in San Francisco with whom he had been at odds for a number of years. Just to ask for forgiveness. The younger brother had changed his name from Womeldorf to Jones following his service in World War I Theater in Germany.

Further, you must consider the bond between a father and his first born is beyond words, especially following the loss of his precious only Grandma Womeldorf. We did not know at the time that Grandpa had just been told that he had treatable cancer, and this was possibly his last and final trip with a chance to say good-by to Francis, his first born; to attempt to ask for forgiveness from his brother; and to say a final good-by to this part of the family, remembering.

Passing over the Sierra Nevadas, it was as if all these burdens and grief’s were finally too much to bear. Pulling off the road and down near a small clear pond out the middle of an empty desert, the rivers of grief returned, and we both cried until we fell asleep.

Atomic Bomb and Frogs.

Next to the cool waters of the small pond with tall overhanging willows, it was as if time had been frozen and all life ceased. There was no sound; there was no wind, and no movement of any kind. Then, World War III. It was a tremendous explosion of sound and fury.

At first, I thought this might be an aircraft of some kind, traveling at or near the speed of sound of 1,100 feet per second. But strangely enough, the skies appeared to be empty of any plane, vehicle or cloud.

Just what could this be?

As our senses reawakened and our minds cleared, we realized this was not a plane or bomb, but the sound came from the nearby pond full of the largest contingent of huge bull frogs that we had ever seen. And these little angels had all started to sing at exactly the same moment and truly sounded just like an atomic bomb going off; not that I knew what an atomic bomb might sound like.

Grandpa Womeldorf and I laughed and laughed nearly all the way home to Texas regarding this event. And from that day forward, the saying we held was to recall the provision of God which still lovingly with a smile remains:

“Frogs!” I thank my God for each and every one.

And it is in His debt, I remain alway.

John Kenton Thompson

-Remembrances from 1959