Ribbit

Red-eyed tree frog (he must've had a rough night)
Photo on Pixabay

For a gal who is terrified of snakes and other slimy, cold-blooded critters, I happen to be a major fan of frogs. To the same “degree” (get it? COLD-blooded? never mind) that I loathe iguanas, crocodiles, ‘gators, worms, fish (unless they are broiled and on my dinner plate) and 99% of bugs, I adore every little ribbit-er I see. 

I really can’t explain the fascination. I mean, they are not terribly attractive (with the exception of the vividly hued poison dart frogs of the Amazon). While some folks keep frogs as pets, that seems a bit cruel to me; joyful hopping is kinda their thing, and it’s hard for a li’l hopper to keep the momentum going within the confines of a home terrarium. Their food of choice is flies, which no thank you! And, needless to add, they are not cuddly or affectionate. 

 

And yet…

 

I adore the Frog and Toad children’s books, Mr. Toad from The Wind in the Willows, and Kermit The. Once in a while, some little tree frogs will scamper across our driveway, which is delightful, though one of us drivers (not me! I’m pretty sure!) accidentally squashed one. Our Peter was fascinated, and took my hand to lead me to the victim. He watched the unmoving frog somberly for several seconds, then said, “I guess he’s dead!” and scampered off. I, on the other hand, briefly considered finding a small box for a proper amphiburial.

 

So, in the absence of frog ownership, I content myself with random frog info. 

 

Did you know that there are frog saunas? It’s true! But before you envision, as I did, frogs sitting around hot cedar enclosures in tiny towels before jumping into icy water--these “saunas” are actually designed to cure a fungal infection called chytridiomycosis. The saunas are made of bricks and a teensy greenhouse; the heat kills off the fungus. I prefer my image, btw.

 

Also…

 

Frogs have been on earth for more than 200 million years.

 

“Toads” are actually frogs that have dry skin and warts (if you were 200 million years old, you’d look like that too).

 

Frogs were the first land animals with vocal cords. If you listen closely on a summer night, you’ll hear them sing, in perfect four-part harmony, songs like “Froggy Went a Courtin’ (trad., arranged by Bob Dylan) “I Can Be a Frog” (The Flaming Lips) and “Frogs and Princes” (Natasha Bedingfield). It all sounds like random croaks to you? Clearly you do not have my finely developed ear.

According to The American Museum of Natural History: “The gastric brooding frog of Australia swallows her fertilized eggs. The tadpoles remain in her stomach for up to eight weeks, finally hopping out of her mouth as little frogs. During the brooding period, gastric secretions cease—otherwise she would digest her own offspring.” Trying to decide if this is a better, or worse, concept than human pregnancy and childbirth. I’ll get back to you.

Thanks for coming to my TED talk.

 

 

 

 

 

Hobbyist

Photo by Steve Johnson on Pexels

No, not a "lobbyist." I do not intend to advocate for Microsoft or Pfizer or Coca-Cola.

I want to be a "hobbyist."

 

Clearly, I’m light years behind my compatriots in that, for one thing, I have never crossed the threshold of Hobby Lobby. I only venture into Michael’s under duress. I do not have my own Etsy shop.

 

And yet, I love the IDEA of hobbies. I yearn to plunge headlong into an “interest,” something creative, maybe something collectible. My dear friend Marda, who has soared far beyond hobbyist into the realm of true artist, speaks of the satisfaction she finds in her home studio, crafting for the pure joy of it. Like me as a writer, she loses herself in the process, and emerges, dazed but delighted, with a finished product. Only hers is something beautiful you can hold and put on your mantel, whereas mine exists completely on the printed page. You can wear Marda’s lovely handmade jewelry; my artistry resides (if I’m lucky) on your bedside table.

 

Turns out, the hobby options are numerous. Just to name a few, there’s beetle fighting (?) and dirt polishing (??), also coin/stamp collecting (both deemed the King of Hobbies—which is it? They need to get their act together) and something called extreme ironing. No joke, these people iron clothes, in weird locales. I have a tough enough time ironing where God intended (on a board, in front of the TV). There are shell seekers and sea glass hunters and piano dabblers. It seems to me that almost anything a person does in their spare time can be labeled a “hobby.” So perhaps my haphazard housekeeping, that periodic “fluff and dust” occurring just before we have company, qualifies? My hobby is…occasional vacuuming?

 

Nah. Hobbies are fun! Hobbies are shareable! Hobbies involve working with polymer clay and tiny plastic googly eyes and watercolor pens, or they are activities (solo or group) such as the faddish pickleball (which, though the name been explained to me, I will always picture as hitting a sour dill across a court) Hobbies, by definition, cannot be livelihoods; for instance, my psychiatrist would never call his adventure in psychotherapy with me his “hobby”(at least I hope he doesn’t).  I’d hate to hire a “hobbyist” lawyer or plumber, because they are just messing around, right? I want a serious pastor, darn it! Not someone who enjoys Googling “spirituality” between customers at Sonic. 

 

It seems that “hobbies” must be both dedicated pastimes AND lighthearted amusements. My mom Joanie was drummed out of the Hobby Corps early on, because she was the worst of both worlds—she was not having fun, nor did she take her pursuits seriously. Her  unfinished dècoupage projects littered the family room for years, and her hooked rug remained eternally semi-hooked. Even late in life, Mom briefly took up, then abandoned, whichever crafts caused the most mess.

 

But I am different. My hobby will be cute, tidy and also intellectually challenging! 

 

I’m leaning towards pistachio art.

The Gray Lady (Someday. Not Yet)

Little me with my wise Nana (why wasn't I taking notes?)
Oil painting by Carolyn Majewski

OK, so apparently my existential crisis is all in my head (my hair, to be precise). At age 67 and a half (precisely), and in consultation with my wonderful hair stylist Sue, I’m beginning to explore…going gray at last. The dye bottle has been mi amiga for almost 30 years now. At 38, I saw the dreaded grays beginning to appear in my very dark brown hair. What was, for several decades, a logical approach to premature aging, is now starting to look a bit silly (at least for me), as my aging is no longer remotely “premature.” 

The current game plan is to return to a short haircut, which had been my go-to for many years, by age 70, and then let nature take her course, color-wise. Several friends took advantage of the pandemic to stop with the tinting. As I so often am, I’m late to the party. But now I’m (almost) ready (not yet! Not yet! Don’t rush me!) 

I anticipate a period of adjustment for sure, but eventually I’ll stop feeling horrified when passing mirrors. The Graying of the Hair should dovetail nicely with the attendant Wrinkling of the Face, Flabbing of the Arms and so on. I gave up on aging like the ridiculously fit Jane Fonda eons ago; nowadays, I aspire to age like the actress Ruth Gordon, who rocked a wry and spry, if crinkled, look, into her late 80s.

 

As I settle in to my new status as an Elder, I know I should probably add the adjective “Wise” for maximum self-esteem. But I worry about identifying that way, because I rarely feel “wise” (unless “wisecracking” counts). Indeed, most days I struggle to spout any Words of Inspiration at all, even to eight-year-old Peter. I fear, by the time my final grandchild is old enough to converse, I will be reduced to whatever I recall from Poor Richard’s Almanac. “Ah yes, dear one, a stitch in time saves nine! What does that mean? I have no idea!”

 

For you see, mine was not a past marked by walks to school uphill both ways in the snow, or weeks of boiled potato and cabbage dinners. I was a child of the 1950s and 60s, and my biggest sacrifice involved having only three TV channels. Character building did not come naturally to someone who spent her after school time, not plowing the back 40, but watching “That Girl” reruns.

However, it’s not too late! Wisdom is a mere Google search away! Just as I did when leading Bible study at church, I only have to stay one click ahead of my students! Yes, my little descendants will sit at my swollen, arthritic feet. “Nana! What’s the Secret of Life?” my precious kiddles will ask. And I will rock my rocker back and forth awhile, for dramatic effect. 

 

“Listen closely, my children. The Secret of Life? Know when to stop dyeing. 

Hair dyeing, that is. You can’t actually stop 'dying'.

 

Hey! Where are you going?”

Photo by Elena Kloppenburg on Unsplash

What's My Theme?

Miles (me) and Prince Charming (Steve)

There’s a running gag in our production of Cinderella that has always been a hit with our young audiences. The Prince periodically instructs Miles the Town Crier to “Play my theme!” before his grand entrances. Miles then delivers a jazzy kazoo rendition of Aaron Copland’s "Fanfare for the Common Man" (a little inside joke for music-savvy grownups). 

Kidding aside, though, wouldn’t having your own theme song be COOL? Not only would it tunefully herald your arrival in a room, thus giving you extra importance, but just hearing it played anywhere would remind the listener of your fabulous self! In music, this idea of an identifying theme that recurs, expressing a character, setting or action, is called a “leitmotif.” 

A perfect example is the John Williams score to the movie Jaws. Those ominous, accelerating two notes during the film always meant a shark attack was imminent (which warning I personally appreciated, because it would give me time to cover my eyes and ears). Disney movie musicals, from Aladdin to Lion King to Encanto, also frequently utilized the leitmotif. Other, more highbrow leitmotifs include those of Richard Wagner (whose 19^th century operas were chock full of them), Puccini and Stravinsky. 

 

So…what kind of tune would evoke YOU? Would you stride into view with dramatic, sweeping tones? How about drifting in with a sweet, lilting violin solo? 1812 Overture-style cannon booms? Or “You Are My Sunshine” played on a toy xylophone? The possibilities are endless!

 

Panning out a bit, is there music that would represent a part your life journey itself? When Steve and I were on the road in the late 1970s touring in children’s theare, we had a cassette player in the car, but could only afford a handful of tapes (yes, our $15 per show salary didn’t go far!) So we tended to play certain ones overandoverandover, prominently Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto (“Theme from Tour” as we still call it). Even now, almost 45 years later, that piece of music brings me right back to the highways and byways of upstate New York, tooling along in a prop-and-costume laden Chevette. 

 

I’m in a contemplative state of mind these days, looking back over my lengthy time on the planet, and plotting a course for my undoubtedly briefer future. In fact, I am hoping to purchase a nifty poster called “My Life in Weeks," a chart with 4,000 marks on it, each mark representing a week of the average life span. You send the company your birth date, and your poster arrives with the weeks you’ve already lived crossed off.  I know some might find this product horrifying, but I’m excited about it. Mortality reminder, yes, but also a challenge to make the very most of each week ahead. 

this is what I'm talking about!

I see myself strolling confidently onto the world stage in the however-many weeks to come, accompanied always by The Theme that defines me.

 

While I’m deciding exactly what that Theme will be, for now I think I’ll go with Jaws.

 

Watch out, everybody!

 

 

 

Veggie Babies

photo by Deon Black on Unsplash

                    28 weeks: Your baby is about the size of a large eggplant

The day before Steve and I heard the news about the new baby, the big bros were already in on the secret. To their credit, they kept mum. But Peter was bursting to give me a hint, so he came into my office and said that they had a surprise, and they’d tell us later. I asked how big the surprise was. Peter responded, “The surprise is the size of an avocado!”

Turn out, he was absolutely correct. At 17 weeks, the baby was indeed avocado-sized. How do we know? Well, Ya-Jhu has an app comparing the size of our Bouncing Baby Grandson #3 with increasingly-sized veggies and fruits as the weeks of her pregnancy continue (a bean, a red pepper, now he’s an eggplant). Though I guess you could use any random measuring device (Your baby is about the size of a ping pong ball), it is very fitting that Mama Yaj is making use of a produce-centered one. 

Since Ya-Jhu's arrival in our lives, we have been served, and consumed, probably twice the amount of vegetables, and definitely ten times the fresh fruit, than I’d ever thought of offering when my kids were small. As a result, Aiden and Peter clamor for healthy after school snacks of fresh cherries, mango spears, and watermelon wedges.

Even though my five children’s afternoon munchies may not have been quite as nutritious as my grandsons’ are (we went through MANY a box of Honey Nut Cheerios), I console myself that at least my gang ate a decent amount of both fruits and vegetables each day—and easily 100X more than I’d eaten as a young child. 

I’m amazed my sisters and I did not end up with scurvy, rickets and other diseases of medieval malnutrition! True, we did have many cavities, thanks to regular consumption of Ring Dings, Yodels, Ding Dongs, and Twinkies (the manufacturers didn’t even pretend their junk food was anything BUT junky—those ridiculous names made that perfectly clear.)

When I took over the kitchen at age 10, my dessert-making skills were the first to develop, followed by meats. From my experience, peas and carrots (and, horrors! spinach) came in cans, or frozen in bags, but honestly Mom rarely bothered to serve anything like that, except perhaps at holiday time. 

Learning to properly prepare foods like salads and asparagus, I finally discovered their deliciousness, but the sugar-coated habits of a lifetime stuck with me. Even now, when Sheridan and Ya-Jhu bring out bowls of strawberries after dinner, my first thought is always, “I guess they didn’t notice the carton of fudge ripple in the freezer!”

My offspring grew to be very healthy eaters, and Julie is even a vegetarian. I have no doubt that the excellent produce they love will serve my grandsons (my veggie babies) well, all their lives. And while I do try, it’s probably too late for me to PREFER broccoli over Almond Joys. But that’s OK.

At least the candy bars have nutritious nuts in them.