Frog Blog

I thought I had lost my hearing aid while scooting down the hill above the pond where I was weeding .  Later, I returned, my eyes focused for little things among the dense ferns.  There I noticed a spotted stone that seemed to breathe . A frog, motionless and likely aware of me long before I saw its pulsing, crouching disguise.  Unlike the robins and swallows that flutter away when I raise my camera, the frog remained for six shots before I continued edging down the hill, when it leapt away to the still waters below us. Splash!

Six shots.  I am back six decades.  I am fourteen-years-old, spending a week with a friend on the beach at Onset, by Cape Cod.  Marsha walks with boys in her wake, and I am eager for the overflow — one boy in particular, a ringer for James Dean.  Summer nights we drive with the guys to cranberry bogs where the boys take.22 gage rifles from the car’s trunk and aim them out toward the bogs where frogs have stilled their songs.  Then the guns fire, the shooters gleefully enjoying the sight of frog parts exploding among the cranberries.  Easy, fear-frozen targets for reckless teenagers. 

I have not met anyone my age who doesn’t carry remorse for acts committed in thoughtless youth.  And although I didn’t fire a gun, I witnessed without reprimand.  Of all scenes collected in my memory there are few more vivid – the humid, salt-laden air rising with a fragrance amidst violence.  My eagerness to blend in where I sensed I did not belong.

Here in the Pacific Northwest, in March, Nature’s early promise of spring comes with frog song from the pond and surrounding woods.  Weeks before robins, chickadees and violet-green swallows take up their warbling sopranos, the bass line is sung by frogs caroling for potential mates from misty dawn until dusk.

Is it a coincidence that fairy tales have frogs turning into princes – princes into frogs? Potential for love abounds.

This spring is a moment in history to reconsider our world view.   We are sequestered in our close environments with an invitation and time to consider the smallest and largest of things.  We can watch and listen to the way our world is singing our seasons along.

Who else is wearing “unnoticeable” camouflage, aware that to be seen can threaten their existence?  How can we value those songs we take for granted, knowing they are not our own, but somewhere around us in the vernal woods and waters that we treasure?

By the way, I found the lost hearing aid when I was dusting behind the couch in the cottage.  I don’t regret having searched outdoors.   Looking for something small, I found within myself, something large.

Author: Mary After Seventy

I am a retired teacher, poet, community volunteer View all posts by Mary After Seventy