Opinion: Beside the road I found Phyllis, who makes me laugh
I don’t know the first thing about science. I just know that out here things are changing. Not long ago I was working on some morning project or other in my house when I noticed a movement in the field out front. Loping toward me was the biggest, most beautiful coyote I’ve ever encountered. Nocturnal by nature, coyotes are often heard here at night but seldom make themselves visible during the day.
Over the years on warm spring and summer nights I would hear chorus frogs and spring peepers out around my pond, a pond some distance through the trees. It’s a pleasant, joyful sound, like someone is leading them in a frog rendition of Mozart’s exquisite “Exsultate Jubilate”; only these days they sing both day and night and, while it's beautiful, I worry that, as with the handsome coyote, somehow a changing climate is affecting former behavior, and I worry that what was once true and lasting is fading.
On these warm spring days I, an old man, sit in a high-backed chair, electric heating pad against my lower back, head bent forward, sometimes reading poetry, other times dozing, until my cats remind me that it’s time for me to stand and offer up their afternoon snacks. It all sounds rather pathetic, maybe even a bit crazy, but it’s OK, as crazy has run in my family for generations.
Yesterday I spent time outside with an electric grinder, sharpening my axes, hatchets, and cutting tools. It was pleasant sitting on an old tree stump in the sun, the only sound a spark-thrown whine when the grinder touched the surfaces. Not exactly Sinatra, but sweet and reassuring nonetheless. The one cutting tool I have not sharpened is a hand-held one issued to my father by the U.S. Army when he was serving in Hawaii during World War II. The blade on the tool was used to cut through thick underbrush when on patrol, and was also used to fight the enemy in case of what is called hand-to-hand combat. There is even an accompanying booklet that illustrates the best places on the enemy’s body to strike to put them out of commission, or kill them. The blade will remain dull as long as it’s in my possession.
I spoke of frogs earlier: allow me to continue. Over the decades I have encountered many items tossed unceremoniously into the ditches that line my gravel road: bags of trash, a dirty diaper, many empty Busch Light cans, even an old television set. But this latest tossed object took me by surprise, and also gave me sad pause, and a sense of loss for some child.
A couple of hundred yards up the road from my place a glint of color caught my eye as I passed. Hanging upside-down in some sort of prickly invasive bramble was a small, green stuffed animal, a frog. I’ve named the frog Phyllis, but that’s a story for another time. Anyway, there was something compelling about the frog’s plight, so I got out of my car, waded into the ditch, and carefully removed her from the bramble. She was in remarkably fine shape, clearly not having suffered any rain damage.
There is nothing big going on here, no strained extrapolations about finding childhood detritus in unexpected places, or hoping some child somewhere isn’t missing her little buddy. Nope, just a small story about a stuffed green creature that these days sits comfortably in a pocket in the passenger door of my car, a creature that makes me laugh a little every time I get in, a creature that assures me that sometimes laughter will catch you when you are falling.
Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County. His book "The Iowa State Fair" is available from the University of Iowa Press.
This article originally appeared on Des Moines Register: Opinion: How I found Phyllis, who makes me laugh
