flat as a stone

Peripheral vision is always ON.
My step faltered even before I knew I had seen something,
even as my eyes swung to the left.
There on the hand railing,
snoozing in the sun
sat a tiny green tree frog.
Black bandit eye mask.
Flat as a stone.

When my husband leaned in for a closer look it opened bright black eyes and lifted its chin.
It seemed to be taking a reading on wind direction.
When you weigh as much as a leaf, and live in a tree, wind is something to ponder.

spring is here

The headlights of the car cast a yellow light ahead onto the wet, black road. There was darkness all around us and our eyes were fixed on the glimmering stretch of lit highway.
"A frog!" my husband exclaims, and sure enough, I see a hop and a flash of frog leg. "Aghh!" I croak. "There's another one."
Isn't it kind of early for frogs?
February frogs.
Shouldn't they be squatting in the mud somewhere dreaming of hazy summer days and flies buzzing in the warm afternoon sun?
Who is the real messenger of spring?
Daffodils can get it wrong.
Even the groundhog has goofed up a few times.
Not frogs though.
Once they throw off their winter woolies and leap about in the dark and rain, it's official
Spring is here.

until that part

There was still a look of horror on my daughter's face. They had been sitting in their van, waiting, when she had spotted it. She had thought at first glance that it was a large piece of black tubing, but it was so thick, and in that moment, she realized that it was a large snake, sunning itself.
A truck pulled up and a man and woman jumped blithely out.
The snake gave a mighty heave, flipping over in mid-air.
It seemed to drain off of the road into the grassy verge.
The couple walked unknowing over the very spot the snoozing snake had been.
They unlocked a gate and as the man returned to drive the truck through, the woman walked slowly along the grassy edge staring intently as though she had lost something.

Now this story would be shocking enough, but there is more.
The woman in the truck was me.

As we drove down the long lane, my eyes were on the van alone.
When we pulled up to a stop, I noticed my son-in-law begin to open his door, his hand held out as though to steady or stop me, but I misinterpreted the meaning.
I thought he was chivalrously offering to open the gate.
I demurred.
Fortunately, the snake didn't.
It just disappeared.
As I peered along the grassy verge, looking for frogs to amaze my grandchildren, my daughter was saying in the van, "Mom CAN'T be looking for the snake."
Had the world tilted off of its axis?

"Oh," I squeaked, as the story was relayed moments later.
"Oh, you were trying to keep me from being frightened by the snake," I gasped gratefully, patting my son-in-law on the shoulder.
"No Mom, he just wanted to see the snake up close. He wasn't thinking of you at all." my daughter added.
And I wasn't thinking of me at all either. At least up until that part.

giants three

Have you ever seen something so unlikely that your mind was not sure how to file the image.
Instead, you experienced that brief moment of suspended thought.
What....??!!!
My daughter saw it first and sounded the alarm.
A giant frog.
There it sat, as still as a lawn ornament upon a log at the edge of the pond.
I say lawn ornament because that is what my startled mind at first declared it saw.
Such an impossible size.
And its color was so like weathered metal; only the glistening eye was bright with life. 
"Bonk."
It had a neighbor.
A second super-frog.
"Bonk, Gonk."
And a third, its body partially submerged.
A trio.
Giants three.
Pavarotti and friends.

still feel the same

My sister is carefully crouching in the sandbox and probably emerged some time later as neat as a pin. I've abandoned frivolous concerns and have settled in up to my knees.
I am noticing that my sister is clad in coordinating separates. I on the other hand, am dressed like a small bohemian in a striped top and flowered shift, a trend that peaked in my teens.
I can see that my pail is full and I am tamping it down. I hope there wasn't a frog in it. The little boy next door and I would often find frogs and pack them around and bury them in random places like sandboxes. It was all in the interest of science. We would find frogs pressed into the mud, soundly sleeping in the early spring and pry them from their comfortable beds. Their lethargy alarmed us and we were sure they were very sick, that their lives were in our hands, which of course was all too true. As we packed them 'round and passed them from hot little hand to hot little hand, the drowsy, cold blooded frogs revived. What a miracle cure. I imagine that the odd, chilled little victim  tenderly buried in warm sand, experienced the same restorative cure that many winter vacationers crave.

P.S. I still feel the same way about sand, and about stripes and flowers, but not about frogs.

to sing

We awoke to the song of a frog this morning.
In our backyard.
Such a loud voice for such a little creature.
I don't speak frog, but I got the message I think.
Winter is on the way.
It's inevitable.
But Spring will follow.
That's inevitable too.
If you are a frog, and your little frog butt is planted on the cold mud of October, the coming slumber of Winter and the warm breath of Spring are something to sing about indeed.

that hand

"But I didn't touch the frog with that hand," my grandson protested, stretching forth his left hand obediently nonetheless.
"You washed that hand for nothing!" he exclaimed.

subterranean

My daughter is a subterranean dweller. She descends a flight of stairs and enters a refreshing and perpetually cool space. While the rest of us wilt and droop in the afternoon heat, she slips on woolly socks and sips Earl Grey.
Not long after she settled into her new abode, a wayward frog leapt carelessly into her window well. He entertained us by clambering up the glass, his toes and fingers like tiny suction cups. He was as cute as any frog could be.
This past week, upon exiting her home, my daughter spotted a tiny frog perched on a wooden sign propped outside her door. Two subterranean dwellers exchanged appreciative glances.

out of the murky depths

There is a scene in the movie Crocodile Dundee that I love.  A ridiculously unsuspecting woman crouches by a river to wash as out of the murky depths a crocodile lunges.
I'm not sure what it is about that scene that I find so entertaining. Perhaps the thrill of fright experienced from the safe vantage point of my couch. Or the sense of superior wisdom in knowing that only a fool would crouch and wash in a murky, crocodile infested river. Or maybe even the vicarious relief in seeing Crocodile Dundee rescue the frail female using nothing more than his bare hands, and of course his huge knife.
This scene flashed through my mind yesterday as I found myself crouching to wash by equally murky water.
We had headed out at dawn for a day of fishing. The lake we frequent is difficult to get to and boats must be carried some distance or navigated through a winding stream and hauled over a beaver dam.
This tends to keep the riff raff down and we enjoyed a blissful day of quiet fishing. Well, as quiet as nature ever gets. The marshy borders of the lake rang and buzzed and trilled with bird song. The sky was high and blue and the air was sweetly crisp and fresh.
As the afternoon sun deepened and slanted, we headed stiffly for shore. The boat was emptied to lighten it for its return trip up and over the beaver dam, my husband at the helm, while I lugged gear over hill and dale to our rendezvous spot, ever watchful of snakes. If I were a car, I would sport the bumper sticker, "I brake for snakes." I break out in a run sometimes too, but I always brake. As usual, a snake paused mid-path to ponder, a sort of reptile version of "chicken" before slithering into the underbrush.
I eventually stood patiently waiting beside a small mountain of fishing gear at the edge of a swampy waterway.
As I bent to wash, crocodiles came unpleasantly to mind.
Just as I dipped my hands into the cool dark water, two decidedly reptile eyes locked with mine, and a frog dressed casually in camouflage lunged out of the water.
"Arhhhhh," I gasped.
On cue, my husband suddenly appeared, standing in our inflatable and paddling madly for shore.
Unlike me, the frog was unimpressed by this display of force and courage and refused to surrender the shore.
Our boat is an amphibian too though and needed to come ashore, so my husband, armed only with bare hands and a paddle, gently launched the frog in a beautiful arch to safety.
A scene worth replaying.

froggish

The Blue River of my childhood was a frog paradise.
Water may have had something to do with that. Frogs love the damp. The town was built round a small lake and as if that wasn't frog friendly enough, the rainfall of the area rivalled the coast. Lush cedar and thick undergrowth covered the hillsides and vast swamp land stretched into the surrounding valleys.
Water, water everywhere can only mean one thing. Mosquitoes. And a million other insects that fluttered, buzzed, and bit; All wonderful frog bait.
Water a plenty, food by the swarm, and apparently no natural predator. I'm sure two small preschoolers don't count. I don't know what creature should have kept the frog population in check, but they were the weak link in the food chain in Blue River's ecosystem. Thank goodness.
The water of the lake teemed with tadpoles in various states of development. Biology 101. Tiny black apostrophes; those with little back legs; swollen pre-frogs with four legs moved in shoals as we paddled and dipped in the frigid water to escape the clouds of mosquitoes. We happily scooped up slippery handfuls and hurled them at each other.
The summer days grew longer, but not necessarily warmer. It was Blue River after all. The shoreline would blur and seem to move as one. A million tiny frogs were on the move. Nary a spot to step. Wall to wall frogs.
How heavenly.

peeking under the leaves

It's been said that scent triggers our earliest memories.
The opposite seems true as well.
A recollection can flood our memory with scent.
As my husband flipped the pages of a gardening magazine this morning he suddenly recalled the spicy scent of marigolds in the fall sunshine as he played with toy cars as a boy. "It's not like nasturtium," he assured me, wrinkling his nose in disgust.
True to some obtuse law of marriage, I love nasturtium in an inverse proportion to my husbands dislike of them. Even their bitter scent is somehow appealing, so pungent and astringent.
Our neighbors always grew a wide, lush swatch of them along side their driveway in Blue River. I loved the fiery bright blossoms, so fragile and vibrant and large lily pad like leaves. They are fresh forever in my mind's eye.
Of course, what I really loved about them as a preschooler was actually something hidden from sight. Something under the leaves in the shadow, dozing on the damp, soft earth. Frogs! They were drawn to those cool shady mounds of flower. Many happy hours were wiled away frog hunting among the Petch's nasturtium plants.
I think I'll plant a mound of them for old time's sake at the far edge of the garden, as far from my husband's nose as possible. Maybe a frog will pause and rest a while. You'll see me peeking under the leaves when the summer sun is low in the sky.

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.