When I moved into this place in the county, it had been vacant for about two years. As I soon discovered in the shower, the house was inhabited by frogs, small frogs.
Very dutifully I carried each outside and released them in a shady spot. The frogs kept coming and I'd put out one or two a day. A library book on frogs revealed that they were Pacific tree frogs. Everything in the book about them was exact. The size, the diversity of color from dull brown to a yellowish green with various combinations of oblong spots. The description of their sound, which the book likened to a ratchet, was perfect. The problem was that (going by the habitat map) Pacific tree frogs aren't found in Idaho. But I figured that herpetologists (the ones who study reptiles and amphibians - not Herpes) had never been to Idaho, at least not this part of the State.
Years went on. More frogs. No problem, I'd just let them out. Then one day I noticed a frog and fly on the inside of the window. I went to do something in another room. When I returned the fly was gone. Ah ha! The frog stayed. All these years I had been swatting flies.
Now my new hobby was watching frogs hunt, stalking their prey like a cat, then pouncing. From my kitchen chair, I'd watch through binoculars. Close up action. But it wasn't good enough. I had a 300mm lens for my camera to which I attached a micro lens. I played theme music from Jurassic Park, focusing on a frog eyeball. Of course everything else was out of focus.
Then I got to worrying if the frogs had enough to eat. I left the door open to let the flies in.
A farmer friend called them three-toed tree toads. I didn't argue. But I know they're frogs. Toads are dry, these are moist. Besides, toads in the house are so tacky.
Contact Hilma (Volcano) Volk, entertainer, rhyming storyteller, ventriloquist, cowgal poet maintains this web site, the ezine Country-Fried Bull and The Manure Happens Web Site
One day while idly riding the backtrails of mental musing I traversed a sharp bend in the trail and came face to face with an amazing and very profound question which has probably never been asked by anyone with an IQ above the number of holes in their socks. This question, so far unanswered, is very profound and may have some highly significant socio-economic significance. The question has been totally overlooked because it is so flagrantly obvious. Any possible answer has escaped me entirely, so I put the question in question up for grabs. If nobody can come up with a suitable answer in the near future, I'll just have to make one up to fit the occasion. Of course that action will undoubtedly put me down in the same league as lawers and politicians, but sometimes you've got to take a step backwards in order to proceed. So, let us proceed.
The burning, yearning for solution question is; "Why are the hairs growing upon a mans face called 'whiskers' ?
Think about that for a minute or two. Hair growing on the arms (and under them), on the head, chest and legs is all referred to as simply hair. Now, with all that simplicity, why mess things up and change the scheme by calling facial hair 'whiskers' ? It doesn't make sense. After all, they don't actually 'whisk' anything. During the normal course of events that is. The profession of 'whisking' is usually left up to the experienced professionals such as 'whiskbrooms" and the like.
Now, can you just imagine a man briskly crawling around in the floorboard of his pickup while vigorously sweeping up the accumulation of mud, manure and stray hay, with his 'whiskers' ? Ridiculous. How about the sideburns ? Totally ludicrous. Or maybe you can envision him wielding the 16 year old neighbor kid by the ankles, doing the cleanup using the kids tender new growth ? Now that is a truly amazing picture to conjure up. Can you imagine the reaction of that kids old man when Johnny comes marching home with his face matted up like a milk cows udder in the winter ? 'Whiskers' ? I think not. It just ain't right somehow. Not only would the kids old man react violently when he found out what had been going on, but some unholy group of loudmouthed reactionaries would be running around drooling quotations from the child labor laws and shouting obscene remarks about child abuse and probably cause our hero to be given a suite in the local greystone hotel for an indeterminate length of time. Probably confined to solitary confinement on a diet of breadcrumbs and drainwater.
I can live with such terminologies as beard, mustache and sideburns, but 'Whiskers' ? I really think that's going a little too far.
What sort of insidious plot is afoot that would create such havoc with a man just because his truck needed a little cleaning ? Is it some underhanded scheme to reduce all men to the position of handwalking janitors ? Or mayhaps in the long forgotten past, some unknown manufacturer of cleaning paraphernalia devised a plot to create a new source of materials for the construction of sweeping and 'whisking' tools. There isn't much of a market for facial hair, so I must assume that if this were the case, the fool must have died before consumating his aspirations. Like I said, a suitable answer just absolutely escapes me. You got any ideas ?
Copyright - Don Roland - 1994
A word of advice to those of you who may never have thought of the possible consequences of a spell of sleepwalking or an unexpected and urgent need to relieve oneself during the course of a period of restful slumber, while innocently enjoying the rigors of living amongst the great outdoors. This includes such wonderous activities as camping, hunting and fishing trips, as well as nursemaiding various forms of livestock.
During your fun filled days and nights while involved in any such activity, my advice is; Never confront a grizzly bear in your underwear. Being thusly attired, you are at an immediate disadvantage. Namely, you have no pockets in which to stick your hands in order to appear nonchalant. Now, if you don't appear nonchalant, then said grizzly will undoubtedly assume your intentions to be aggressive. In which case, you're immediately in big trouble, Jake. All self- respecting grizzlies, when confronted with an apparently aggressive individual, will automatically respond in kind. That means that the least you can expect is to be batted up along side the head with a big fist full of huge stickers. Not a very pleasant experience when trotting around in your underwear. If the person of the bear should happen to be of the female persuasion, you may be in even bigger trouble, Henry. If such should happen to be the case, she will undoubtedly mistake your appearance as some perverted sexual attack and doubtless being eager to defend her honor, she will immediately knee you in the crotch while flailing about your head with two or three big handfuls of huge stickers. Also a very unpleasant experience. No matter how you may be dressed. And, if Brother Bear, Boyfriend Bear or Hubby Bear happens to be in the neighborhood, all hands will undoubtedly join in her sever assault upon your poor unclad body. Survival, in such circumstances, becomes very chancy indeed.
You might expect such things to occur only out in the remoteness of the wilderness. Such assumptions can lead to disaster, Oscar. That irate shemale grizzly may well turn out to be your mother-in-law. Many mothers-in-law are mistaken, upon first glance, for a grizzly, due to either an attitude problem or their general appearance. Or a combination of the two. If your confrontation should be with the above mentioned relative, you're really in deep stuff , George. She will automatically assume the very same assumptions as the other lady grizzly and in turn commence to inflict the identical injuries as previously described, with the exception that she has at her disposal an additional weapon of considerable magnitude. Namely a purse the size and weight of an overstuffed sofa, which she can and will, wield in a determinedly vicious manner, directly upon your head. When she commences to bong your brains with that small arsenal you may wish to be in the wilderness trying to explain yourself to that other bear instead. And, if her dear brother should happen to be available, her anguished cries of rape and assault will be answered by this sweetheart slamming you up side the head with his purse too. And, with hands upon overweight hips, telling you, in no uncertain terms, what a bad boy you are. ( Among other things.) During all of this frivolous melee, mother-in-law will, in conjunction with the physical abuse, also be in the midst of much high volume verbal desecration of your character, honor, worthiness and reputation. A tactic often employed by such persons no matter how you may be dressed.
Many other similar and assorted such adventures are also possible in similar circumstances, but most are entirely too gruesome to mention herein. These few instances have been brought to your attention merely to make you aware of the fact that your seemingly simple and innocent activities can bring about some amazingly unpleasant consequenses.
There is only one time proven method of protecting yourself from such remarkably distressing adventures. That being to sleep fully clothed. No matter whether you're camping overnight in the wilds or at your in-laws ( much the same thing ) , sleepwalking and late-night pitstops come at unexpected and inopportune times you know. It is advisable to change your shirt before heading for the office the next morning. A slept in shirt does nothing for your public image and you look bad enough after that nightbear you survived last night anyway. Or,,,,, was it really just a bad dream ? Hmmmmmm.
Copyright - Don Roland - 1994
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