Saturday, March 13, 2010

spring calls, or croaks

We've had t-shirt days already, and the daffodils are blooming in the freeway medians. The pointed green nose of spring bulbs are cracking the damp surface of the garden and leaves have appeared like time-lapse magic on the hydrangeas. I've heard talk of the arrival of Spring but something hasn't happened yet, something that marks the arrival of every Spring. It's a sound that announces the end of Winter like a sweet clear,( although tiny) trumpet call. Frogs. The Bible talks about "the voice of the turtle being heard in the land," but I listen for the voice of frogs on the night air and then I know that Spring is here. Frogs and the passing seasons are one in my memory. I realize as I'm writing this that my mind is literally hopping with frog stories. The most recent took place a few months ago. One evening last fall, as our visitors were leaving, my husband stepped out the front door to continue his good-bye conversation. As he stepped out, a frog stepped in. Now I was part way up the stairs with my little grandson and caught the movement with the corner of my eye. I thought..... dry leaf, but then my eyes focused and my brain registered the image and my mouth opened simultaneously. "Frog," I squeaked. At that precise moment, my husband turned to step back into the house and I could see his great foot descending, down, down towards the little frog. I could see that the point of contact would not be good news and I felt powerless to change the inevitable tragedy and I did the only thing I could do. Scream. Frogs don't react to screams, and actually neither does my husband. His foot continued to the floor, but the little frog felt the slippered foot grazing his back and leapt for his life. Literally. He somehow managed to flip over, revealing his yellow underside as he shot back out the door. My grandson's eyes were as big as the October moon and he loves to hear me retell the story. He always supplies the part where I ask him what Grandma said when Grandpa nearly stood on the frog. Such laughter and commotion. Poor little frog. He just experienced the commotion part. I'm sure his mother had suggested hibernating to him and he was stalling just like a toddler that doesn't want to go to bed yet. Well, he's hibernating now, and one of these clear, fresh evenings I may hear him lift up his voice, grateful for the arrival of another Spring. And I'll be grateful too.

1 comment:

Shari Morehouse said...

ok, i'm thinking you should write a book. You could pair up with pictures of your quilts and homespun tales. I think it would be great. You are a very descriptive writer.