Thursday evening: rain. Not hard, just a shower. The real show, the thunder and lightning, had passed to the north. We heard it go by like the 11 o’clock freight train that rumbles along in the distance.
We were in the livingroom. The TV was on but we were all distracted, reading: Rachael, a novel; Karen Sue, a book on gardening; and me, an article in “Smithsonian” about who was actually the first man to reach the North Pole. And guess what? It wasn’t Robert Peary. He apparently lied. A major deception that the entire world bought because it wanted a hero. He wasn't a hero. The evidence strongly suggests that Frederick Cook beat him by a full year. Peary knew Cook, knew the truth and spent most of his time trying to discredit Cook's story. (Peary could give no real details of what the North Pole was actually like; Cook could.) But in the end, Peary's smear campaign worked and he got all the accolades. Cook died years later scorned, a banished footnote to history.
Back to the livingroom: lost in the reverie of the printed page, our individual distractions came to an end when we noticed a greenish lump, about the size of a bite of sushi—California Roll: cucumber, avocado and a bit of crab—appeared to be hopping across the carpet. Any greenish lump, sushi or not, is not supposed to hop across the floor.
Going to investigate, we discovered a Cope’s gray treefrog (Hyla chrysoscelis) had somehow found his way indoors. But how? We did not know, but froggy had come a courtin’. He did ride. What no sword and pistol by his side? Perhaps it was a girl.
This is their mating season, I’ve been hearing their "eeerrrrrrrrrrr" calls from the woods behind the house for the past few weeks. Let’s hope this one finds a partner. Now that we have gotten to know it, we feel we have a vested interest in its procreation.
-Photo: Rachael with Cope's gray treefrog
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