Green Frog in a White Rose October 15, 2012

I was trained by my father to anticipate all kinds of road hazards, but one I had not considered was the sudden appearance of a green tree frog hitching a ride on the inside of my car’s front left window.  Annie and I were returning from Pi on a Sunday afternoon a while back and, while on 101 South, had just managed to release a spider that had her all fetutzed.  Within a matter of minutes, I noticed that Annie was again staring my way, this time eerily calm.  “Mom,” she said slowly so as not to freak me out, “There is a frog on your window.”  Having at your left shoulder a frog, however small, which could at any moment leap into your cleavage, say, was not the thing you want to have happen at 65 miles per hour.  So, as we pulled into the right lane, hoping for an exit to appear, the little frog clung to the inside of the window, climbing up it at a gravity-defying angle until friction lost to Newton and he tumbled down to land on the door-handle, from which he re-initiated his ascent.  The good news was that the little frog, and we, survived the ordeal; we deposited him in a leafy area in the wilds of Corta Madera and we were once again on our way.

I was reminded of this small adventure today as I was harvesting the week’s new blossoms from my prolific white rose bush.  Jeannette claims that it is so healthy because of her excellent pruning, and who am I to doubt it?  Clip-clip-clip, but what is this?  A little green tree frog, resting deep inside on pillows of petals.  Was he hoping that I would cut his flower so that he could come home with me?  We stared at each other for a long time.  I passed over his branch, leaving him to his soft white bed.

The Badger September 30, 2012

The past two weekends produced badger sightings in the pasture, but I caught only a glimpse of him on his second visit.  Still, I was not convinced, especially after checking up on badger descriptions at the Bear Valley Visitor Center.  The critter I witnessed had the right shape and waddle, but in silhouette he appeared to my eyes as having a stubby conical tail, reminding me of the old Prussian Pickelhaube helmets.  Badgers’ tails, according to the field guides, are furry.  

And so, I hunkered down for an afternoon of some serious badger observation.  I set up a station on my deck, including yesterday’s unread newspaper, a few New Yorkers, my journal, a pen, a cup of ice coffee, and most important, a pair of hefty binoculars, inherited from my grandfather, covers off and at the ready. 

I was joined by the great blue heron who often visits and stays for a while.  He caught a gopher and as he was struggling to swallow it, a red-tailed hawk swooped in to steal it.  I waited to see the heron snare another gopher and outwit the hawk.  Now I had two reasons to be patient.

As 2 pm turned to 3 and then 4, I started to grow restless, especially as the sun was hot.  I turned to my current craft obsession, attempting to weave lavender wands from my lavandula with colorful ribbons.  I was starting to get the hang of it, as the heron gave up and moved on.  5 pm, 6 pm.  By 6:30 the sun fell behind the trees along the ridge, shooting off a fat apricot triangle of light on the hillside. 

I cleaned my coffee cup, loaded a few things into the car, and ate a bit of the blackberry-apple crisp I had made the day before, when just then, at ten minutes to 7, I saw him.  I took up the binoculars and balanced my elbows on the deck’s railing.  Flat and elliptical was his body, white-striped with an upturned nose was his face, dark and squat were his legs, and yes, from a rear view, red and bushy was his tail.  The American badger, and my patience rewarded.

Alone with the Autumn Moon September 29, 2012

I waited for the full moon to hoist itself above the evening’s low-lying mist, eager to look upon it and reflect on family who are far away.  The festival of the autumn moon is an Asian tradition, one I have shared each year with my Chinese-born daughter.  Alas, this year Annie, too, is distant, and I stand alone in the fragrant field, thinking of her.