If you’re a gardener, I don’t need to tell you that gardening is chock full of surprises. Some good. Some bad. And then there are those embarrassing moments which may label you for life.
Take last Saturday.
It began innocently enough. Sunshine. Birdsong. A front porch full of empty glazed pots and plants in need of planting.
Everything would have been fine if I’d just kept the news about the frog to myself.
But oh no, I had to go and whoop for joy at the top of my lungs and break into a jig. Without context I can see how this behavior might seem, well…
Eccentric. Odd. Downright goofy.
If you’re ever in a similar situation, just know that the backstory won’t salvage your reputation with the one unfortunate neighbor who happens to be strolling by during the ‘hop ‘n holler’ portion of the program. You’ll most likely go from quirky to certifiable in the telling. I know I did.
In my defense, I haven’t seen a frog in any of my gardens since I moved back to California from Washington State some 22 years ago. We never lived close enough to any seasonal creeks or ponds. Until now.
I’ve dearly missed the little hoppers.
Here’s one I tried to replicate in watercolor while still residing in the Evergreen State…
Fact is, me and frogs go way back. When I was growing up my dad built a small water feature in our backyard. Several ‘adventures’ to local waterways yielded a few frogs and mosquito fish to populate ours. That’s when I learned the outdoor-textbook-truth about the frogs and the bees. There’s no such thing as ‘just a few.’
We started out with a handful and wound up with hundreds. I’m not sure how our neighbors felt about the subsequent frog invasion.
Maybe my solitary porch buddy is a harbinger of froggy times ahead.
So if you’re ever round these parts and you hear mention of a ‘ditzy frog lady…’ Be sure and wave. I’m the one decked out from head to toe in amphibian-flare.
Hat. T-shirt. Socks. Etc.
I may as well embrace the moniker and go…