I had been sick for a number of days and stuck inside with sick kids for even more than I could possibly count. I was starting to feel closed in. Paul and I were laying on the floor Monday night after sending the kids to bed talking over possible summer vacation plans and events of the day.
Suddenly Paul sat up, “I think there IS a frog somewhere around here.”
His statement caught me off guard, as I had forgotten my conversation with him from a number of weeks prior that I swore I heard a frog ribbiting somewhere. For a moment I thought he had read my mind when a few days earlier I was remembering my glorious frog-catching youth and bemoaning the fact the I knew of no good frogging places in the area and my kids were missing the sheer joy of catching a frog.
“What?” I asked, wanting to make sure that I had actually heard him right.
“Shhh, I want to see if I can hear it again,” he whispered. And sure enough a frog’s ribbit could be heard rather plainly in our living room.
Bringing up frogs to a convalescing mom who had a frog-catching youth and is longing for the great outdoors is not necessarily the thing to do, but the damage was already done, for you see, I had heard it myself now.
“There is a frog!” I exclaimed, “Let’s go catch it.”
Paul looked at me rather dubiously in my t-shirt, pajama pants and bare feet, but I was already creeping across the front room to the door and slipping out into the cool night air. After listening for a moment, we heard not only one frog, but an entire chorus of them. i was growing very excited, but they still sounded to far off. I moved to the end of the driveway, they were louder now, and Paul and I stood listening in the dark.
A woman on an evening walk passed by and we chatted with her about hunting frogs, and I am sure she though me a complete nut in my barefeet and smiley face pants, but I was on a mission (and just plain pleased to be out of the house and feeling slightly better for a change). I looked at Paul and pointed down the street across from us, “It’s down there, come on.”
Paul stood and watched me tiptoe across the road and down the side street, shaking his head and glancing back at the warm glowing light in our front window. Finally humoring me, and no doubt hoping that he could speedily put and end to my frog-hunting escaped, he followed after. The frogs were growing quite loud as we passed the first house in the corner, one in particular. And by the third house we discovered it’s location. Unofortunately it was carefully esconced beneath some dense foliage in an unknown neighbors garden along side the house. Paul even took a careful peek but it was well covered.
he was a loud grand-daddy frog, starting up the chorus, the director really. I thought about knocking on their door and asking if we could hunt for the frog in their flowerbed, but I had a funny feeling they might try to send me to the loony bin, and so I passed and returned to my warm home to defrost my toes.
But, every night I still hear that grand-daddy frog leading his chorus and one of these days I might just have to follow my urge ……. and catch it.
Though I didn’t get my frog we have flowers in our yard to make up for it (oh, and a rather peculiar little friend as well, I’m never seen one such little beastie this early in the year):