On a recent summer evening a group of women gathered in a spacious living room for a book reading by Adria Libolt, a friend who had recently published a memoir of her many years working as a warden in the State of Michigan prison system. Sixteen of her admirers were eager to hear about her high-drama profession.
As the evening darkened we had no idea of the drama that was about to unfold outside on the large plate glass window just behind Adria.
A small, very green, frog appeared, clinging to the window – a hungry frog, as it turned out. Adria’s reading lamp made for perfect conditions, singing siren songs to moths and other insects. They beat frantically on the glass, trying to get through to commit suicide on the light bulb. Winged fliers, drunk with light, they weren’t factoring in a frog – that was evident.
About half the group, including Adria, had their backs to the window, but we who faced it tended to lose concentration as the frog suction-cupped its way from one bug delicacy to another, clearly having a fine time stocking up for a good, long frog nap later on.
The more entrancing Adria’s narrative, the more dedicated the frog’s industriousness. She explained deep truths about the prisoners as the frog pounced and munched.
It was all I could do not to say, “Stop, Adria! Look at that crazy frog behind you!” But of course I didn’t. We spectators had to communicate with eye rolls, slight nods and smiles.
The back-to-the-window people were being educated. The window-facers began to titter.
Then an especially large, luscious, moth-like critter landed on the window near the top where no frog, or frogette, had gone before. I had decided that our frog was female, because her dedication seemed somehow maternal. When she spotted this fabulous creature, she obviously thought, “Whoa! That’s exactly what I need to fix my famous pasta alla reptile.”
Eyeing her treasure, she apparently beefed up her suction cups and climbed, concentrating on each step. Woops! Plop. She lost her grip. She tried again and again, each time a little closer to the prize – or, entrée – and each time thudding to the sill.
Her audience was now deeply involved.
Finally, when she was still a good fifteen inches below the critter, Frogette launched into giant leap. Gotcha! We saw only a blur of insect wings and frog body parts until both parties crashed on the sill with considerable force. It was a virtuoso grab, one that would have earned high points at the Frog Olympics.
Adria continued to share her insights and stories, unaware of the performance that had taken place just a few inches behind her. The frog crowd made a concentrated effort to get serious.
Life is like that sometimes. We deal with our problems and concerns, unaware of all sorts of life and death dramas happening in parallel universes.
I’m sure there’s a deep lesson in this narrative, but the best I can come up with is, “Be sure you have all your ingredients before starting to fix dinner.”
