A few weeks ago, a new frog made the pond his home. He wasn’t a bullfrog; Jeremiah had a very distinctive sound. He didn’t sound like one of the lovely little Pacific Tree Frogs that are the size of my thumbnail but sound as though they’re the size of my dog, Teddy. I was hearing something different, a frog I’ve never heard before, but definitely a frog.
This guy sounded a bit like a tree frog, but there was a funny deep trill at the end of his song. He sang only in the early mornings, while it was still dark. During the day, he didn’t make any noise at all. I would have heard him as I worked in the back yard the final week before placing my Milwaukie house on the market. I’m a little sad I didn’t get to see the frog before I had to leave the place that has been my home for 36 years.
As I sat on the patio in the dark that last morning, listening to the frog with a strange accent, I had a thought. What if he’s just an ordinary little tree frog? What if his voice is different because of some anomaly in his physiology? What if he’s just found a different sound and likes it and doesn’t think he has to sound like anyone else? There’s nothing wrong with that.
As a matter of fact, it sounds like the plot for a children’s book; a lonely little frog, out of step with his fellows but proud to continue singing his own song.
The strange sounding frog in my back yard may have been an ordinary little tree frog who doesn’t care that his brothers mostly stopped singing in March, who prefers that fancy little trill he added to the end of the tree frog song.
I’m now living in Newberg. I will continue listening for frogs, watching for wild things outside my door, and sharing those modest adventures here.
That last morning before the move, sitting in the dark waiting for the sun and a new day to begin, I listened appreciatively to the little guy happily entertaining himself, blessing me with a fond farewell and a final memory of the place I loved for so long.