There are a lot of reasons Tree Frogs are a welcome presence around homes. For example they consume mosquito larva and thus keep us free of dreaded diseases such as Yellow Spotted Swamp Fever. Equally important is their sweet melodious song that soothes the tumult of our souls at days end releasing us from mayhem, confusion and disorder.
Or, that was my reasoning when I "adopted" a small handful of the darlings a mere two years ago. As I look back on it, I can relive the exhilaration and pure bliss as I gently and reverently released five of the precious jewels in the upper most portion of our small backyard pond.
Each night as the sun slowly slipped behind the trees and disappeared I held my breath and listened. Finally one night I heard the solo vibrato of a bachelor tree frog in full courtship. That pure heavenly sound brought me such delight . As the nights followed, there was still only one soft soothing voice to sing me to sleep. None-the-less, I savored every note as I drifted sleepily into oblivion.
By the end of summer the single song had grown into a marvelous full symphonic choir. Ahh yes, I finally had achieved my optimal goal. Each night our windows were open to an incredible crescendo of Tree Frog courtship blended with the gentle iambic background rhythm provided by crickets. A true tranquil delight that only Nature could provide.
Last spring held an enchanting surprise as I noted multiple tiny tadpoles swimming my Water Lilly garden, the three birdbaths, the bog garden, and the backyard pond. What Glory! What Wonder!
By mid summer of last year the crescendo had grown to a vast cacophony of such magnitude that we no longer could sleep with our bedroom windows open, nor did we greet the non-never-ending Tree Frog courtship with our original exuberant glee.
Which brings us to the present, and as such, at this point in time that I feel obligated to advise anyone who has ever been tempted to adopt a handful of Tree Frogs to think the matter over thoroughly.
It's not so much the cacophony of thousands of tiny Tree Frogs that I find so unsettling. No, in fact that still somewhat pleases me, although not as much as say, a chorus of five hundred or even one hundred would. What is disquieting is waking up at 4am with one of those cold clammy four legged critters siting on your forehead croaking away.
While that in itself was truly an unnerving experience, I find that my pioneer spirit and nature loving soul did not prepare me for finding several more on the bedroom floor and even more suctioned to the inside of various windows and walls in the house.
Crawling around on my hands and knees at 4 in the morning with a mini-flashlight clamped between my teeth catching Tree Frogs is not my idea of recreational sport. However as I gathered up the remaining stragglers and set them free at the edge of the pond, I had to chuckle ...though only faintly, at the ironic humor of the situation. What's that saying? "Be Careful What You Ask For?"
Returning to the now frog-free house I decided to take a quick shower to wash the froggie "goo" off. Sleepily I trudged to the bathroom where I simultaneously flicked on the light and opened the shower door. To my astonishment I was bombarded by a half dozen more frogs leaping wildly toward me as they vacated the shower stall.
Is there a moral to this story? Indeed there is: Adopting five tiny Tree Frogs can, and generally does, lead to Toadal chaos!
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Home Land Security?
My husbands father was a horse trader and collector of "things." There seemed to be no rhyme nor reason to the vast variety of items that found their way into his possession via trades or scavenges.
He was born during world war I and was a youngster during the Dust Bowl Era, and the Great Depression. He was present in Hawaii during the bombing of Pear Harbor and he also knew the ravages of the Korean, Vietnam and Gulf Wars. Seeing all these things first hand made him become what I would call a frugal man. As such, he collected "things." When we moved back onto the ranch where my husband grew up, we found many interesting "things." Rolls of wire, boxes of rubber bands, tiny balls of string, hundreds if not thousands of nuts, bolts, screws, nails and other miscellaneous hardware.
He was an electrician by trade, and that took him into various homes and businesses in the community on a daily basis. Whenever he came across something someone wasn't using he work out some kind of barter and haul it back to the ranch. If it was something in need of repair, he would repair it and either find a new home for it or store it away for future use.
To this day my husband, Bruce, and I still find "things" tucked in rafters or stowed away in odd places. For the most part we consider them to be amusingly harmless and even practical. However this weekend while moving items that had been stored in the corner of the barn for decades, we came across a not so innocuous item.
Down at the bottom of the pile of odds and ends that we planned to haul to the dump, we uncovered an odd looking and very heavy wooden box with a spring loaded metal lid. The box was about 18 inches square and about 20 inches tall. The writing on the sides of the box had been obscured by age and dampness. It took both my husband and I to wrestle the box a few feet to where the light from a window shone in on it. Even with the added light we had difficulty making out the lettering. We managed to read "Smith" "65 pounds" and "1945."
Bruce tried with all his might to loosen the spring lid. He grunted and twisted. He shifted positions and twisted and grunted. The lid wouldn't budge. After several he-man attempts he sent me across the barn to get a hammer. At the workbench, I had several choices but decided on both a small carpenters hammer and a larger sledge hammer.
The first tool of choice was the more delicate light weight carpenters hammer. Bruce gave the lid several light taps with it, followed by several more harder taps and then finally several sharp blows. A few sparks few as metal hit metal, but the lid remained in place.
After a few minutes of watching Bruce's non-productive labor I tapped him on the shoulder and gave him the larger sledge hammer (which by the way would have been my first tool of choice.) Several grunts, blows with the sledge hammer and sparks later the lid finally gave way slightly. However, it moved with such difficulty that it became necessary to revert back to the smaller carpenters hammer again to coax it open.
By my calculations, it took nearly 20 minutes to open the defiant box. When at last my husband stood, hammer in one hand and the lid in the other, I noticed that his previously flushed and sweating face was now drained to a ghostly white. Curious I looked down into the box. My first thought was that the contents somewhat resembled dirt, but not quite. Looking closer I noticed that whatever it was had a somewhat granular look.
"What the heck is that?" I asked. Slowly, Bruce reached extended arm and gently pushed me back away from the box and said in a very faint whisper "I think... I think.. I think... I think we just opened 65 pounds of 60 year old blasting powder."
My thoughts flashed immediately to the sparks that flew when the metal hammer hit the metal lid. I tried to speak but couldn't. I think I may have uttered something remarkably intelligent like "waaa?" or maybe "buuuu" but I can't be sure. We silently backed slowly out of the barn.
So now the big question is what does one do to safely deal with 65 pounds of 60 year old blasting powder. As it happens there is a retired Police Chief living across the road from us. Over the past years we have become acquainted with him and figured he would know the safest way to deal with our current "situation."
As we walked in stunned silence from the barn to the house my thoughts flew over a mired of scenarios. What if, for example one of those sparks had touched off the powder. What if, there had been a lightening storm and a bolt of lightening had struck the metal barn...there had been hundreds, maybe thousands of storms during the time that stuff had been stored in the barn. What if sparks from Bruce's many electric saws, drills grinders, etc had reached the box. I dizzied myself with "what if's." Had I ever sat on that pile of boxes and junk while talking to Bruce as he worked in the barn?
After composing ourselves we went across the street and talked with our retired resident Police Chief. He listened to our story with a thin amused smile then followed us back to our barn so he could confirm whether or not our box actually contained blasting powder.
Well, he confirmed. The fire marshal confirmed. A representative from the local Bomb Squad (who even knew we had a local bomb squad) confirmed. A representative from the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearms (ATF) confirmed.
So now we wait. I'm not entirely sure for what. I don't think they will call in Home Land Security but who knows? I actually think we are waiting for a larger Bomb Squad to come in with one of those cute little metal robots to remove it, but I'm not sure. Meanwhile we've been instructed not to try and move it (no worries there folks,) to keep our barn locked and promise not to blow up anyone or anything. (we'll do our best.) Actually the barn looks rather festive with all the streamers of yellow "Crime Scene" tape draped over it .
If Dad was still around it really would be great to ask him why he had 65 pounds of old unstable blasting powder stored in the barn. At any rate, rest assured that the next mysterious box we come across will be handled a bit differently .
He was born during world war I and was a youngster during the Dust Bowl Era, and the Great Depression. He was present in Hawaii during the bombing of Pear Harbor and he also knew the ravages of the Korean, Vietnam and Gulf Wars. Seeing all these things first hand made him become what I would call a frugal man. As such, he collected "things." When we moved back onto the ranch where my husband grew up, we found many interesting "things." Rolls of wire, boxes of rubber bands, tiny balls of string, hundreds if not thousands of nuts, bolts, screws, nails and other miscellaneous hardware.
He was an electrician by trade, and that took him into various homes and businesses in the community on a daily basis. Whenever he came across something someone wasn't using he work out some kind of barter and haul it back to the ranch. If it was something in need of repair, he would repair it and either find a new home for it or store it away for future use.
To this day my husband, Bruce, and I still find "things" tucked in rafters or stowed away in odd places. For the most part we consider them to be amusingly harmless and even practical. However this weekend while moving items that had been stored in the corner of the barn for decades, we came across a not so innocuous item.
Down at the bottom of the pile of odds and ends that we planned to haul to the dump, we uncovered an odd looking and very heavy wooden box with a spring loaded metal lid. The box was about 18 inches square and about 20 inches tall. The writing on the sides of the box had been obscured by age and dampness. It took both my husband and I to wrestle the box a few feet to where the light from a window shone in on it. Even with the added light we had difficulty making out the lettering. We managed to read "Smith" "65 pounds" and "1945."
Bruce tried with all his might to loosen the spring lid. He grunted and twisted. He shifted positions and twisted and grunted. The lid wouldn't budge. After several he-man attempts he sent me across the barn to get a hammer. At the workbench, I had several choices but decided on both a small carpenters hammer and a larger sledge hammer.
The first tool of choice was the more delicate light weight carpenters hammer. Bruce gave the lid several light taps with it, followed by several more harder taps and then finally several sharp blows. A few sparks few as metal hit metal, but the lid remained in place.
After a few minutes of watching Bruce's non-productive labor I tapped him on the shoulder and gave him the larger sledge hammer (which by the way would have been my first tool of choice.) Several grunts, blows with the sledge hammer and sparks later the lid finally gave way slightly. However, it moved with such difficulty that it became necessary to revert back to the smaller carpenters hammer again to coax it open.
By my calculations, it took nearly 20 minutes to open the defiant box. When at last my husband stood, hammer in one hand and the lid in the other, I noticed that his previously flushed and sweating face was now drained to a ghostly white. Curious I looked down into the box. My first thought was that the contents somewhat resembled dirt, but not quite. Looking closer I noticed that whatever it was had a somewhat granular look.
"What the heck is that?" I asked. Slowly, Bruce reached extended arm and gently pushed me back away from the box and said in a very faint whisper "I think... I think.. I think... I think we just opened 65 pounds of 60 year old blasting powder."
My thoughts flashed immediately to the sparks that flew when the metal hammer hit the metal lid. I tried to speak but couldn't. I think I may have uttered something remarkably intelligent like "waaa?" or maybe "buuuu" but I can't be sure. We silently backed slowly out of the barn.
So now the big question is what does one do to safely deal with 65 pounds of 60 year old blasting powder. As it happens there is a retired Police Chief living across the road from us. Over the past years we have become acquainted with him and figured he would know the safest way to deal with our current "situation."
As we walked in stunned silence from the barn to the house my thoughts flew over a mired of scenarios. What if, for example one of those sparks had touched off the powder. What if, there had been a lightening storm and a bolt of lightening had struck the metal barn...there had been hundreds, maybe thousands of storms during the time that stuff had been stored in the barn. What if sparks from Bruce's many electric saws, drills grinders, etc had reached the box. I dizzied myself with "what if's." Had I ever sat on that pile of boxes and junk while talking to Bruce as he worked in the barn?
After composing ourselves we went across the street and talked with our retired resident Police Chief. He listened to our story with a thin amused smile then followed us back to our barn so he could confirm whether or not our box actually contained blasting powder.
Well, he confirmed. The fire marshal confirmed. A representative from the local Bomb Squad (who even knew we had a local bomb squad) confirmed. A representative from the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearms (ATF) confirmed.
So now we wait. I'm not entirely sure for what. I don't think they will call in Home Land Security but who knows? I actually think we are waiting for a larger Bomb Squad to come in with one of those cute little metal robots to remove it, but I'm not sure. Meanwhile we've been instructed not to try and move it (no worries there folks,) to keep our barn locked and promise not to blow up anyone or anything. (we'll do our best.) Actually the barn looks rather festive with all the streamers of yellow "Crime Scene" tape draped over it .
If Dad was still around it really would be great to ask him why he had 65 pounds of old unstable blasting powder stored in the barn. At any rate, rest assured that the next mysterious box we come across will be handled a bit differently .
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