Fine As Frog's Hair

Fine as Frog's Hair

The phone began to ring as Jane was coming up the stairs with the last box. She set it with the others in the middle of the kitchen, not knowing what else to do. Stuff. She sighed, glanced at the caller I.D. and sighed again. Reluctantly, she picked up the receiver, telling herself she’d have to do it sooner or later.

“Hello, Mother,” she said.

"Oh Jane, I'm so glad to hear your voice! How ARE you?"

“I’m fine, Mother. So, you must have already heard or you wouldn’t be calling here at this time of day.”

“Frances was working at the switchboard today. She called me around noon. She said she saw you coming out of the personnel office crying, and then a little later she saw you carrying things out to the car. What happened? “ Phyl asked.

Frances was her mother’s neighbor. You couldn’t pry patient information out of her with a crow bar, but employees and visitors were fair game. From their booth in the center of the lobby the PBX operators could see everything that went on.

“I got fired,” Jane answered. She stood there, biting her lip, her eyes closed, shoulders slumped. She couldn’t bring herself to say anything else.

“Fired? How could they fire you? You’ve been there ten years! How could they do that to you,” Phyl demanded. “You’d better see a lawyer!”

“It was pretty simple. They told me I was ‘terminated.’ That’s all it took,” Jane said. She didn’t understand it herself, so how could she begin to explain it to her outraged mother.

“’Terminated.‘ Maybe that doesn’t sound so bad. Like they’re trying to save money and have eliminated your position, ” Phyl reasoned.

“No, it really wasn’t like that. Daffie sounded like she’d like to terminate me, not my job,” Jane said.

“What are you going to do?” Phyl asked, making it sound as if the situation were desperate.

“First, I’m not going to panic. We’ve known this would probably happen. We have some money saved.”

It shouldn’t have been a surprise, Jane thought grimly. She’d known ever since Daffie came here that things were not going well. Daffie didn’t know how to manage a staff and refused to do any part of the work herself. Hide it as she might with a hundred subterfuges, she knew that Jane knew how ineffective she was. Still, Jane never really thought it would come to this. She thought she’d hang on, as she always had, until Daffie, with her boasts and lies, hanged herself.

“Next, I’m going to go through all this stuff,” she continued, surveying the boxes that held the clues to her life, a dismal sight. “Maybe I’ll make a collage out of what was in my desk.”

She had no intention of doing any such thing, but she didn’t feel like talking any more. She didn’t want to share her failings with her mother.

“Well, of course,” her mother said, as if it was the most natural thing and not worth mentioning. “But then what will you do? You know, for a job.”

Jane could imagine the pinched look her mother’s mouth would have while questioning her, the eyes widened in distress. Trying to mask her irritation, she answered evenly, “I hardly know yet, Mother. I’m not ready to think about it.”

There was a short silence, but Phyllis wasn’t done.

“That could be interesting, the collage, I mean,“ Phyl commented, trying to keep the conversation going. “What do you have there to put in it?”

“Old pay stubs,” Jane said, looking at the contents of the first bag as she took it out of the box and emptied it onto the kitchen table. “Some thank you’s from patients, a couple of cartoons that cheered me up during the divorce, even if that was a long time ago. A little perfume for times when you really need it, for under your nose. You know, the stuff that’s in everybody’s drawers. Well, maybe not yours,” she reflected.

“What are you planning to do with it, hang it on the wall so you can remember how great things used to be?” Phyllis asked. There was, as usual, no evidence that she had any suspicion how stabbing her words were. Even in her 60’s she could still draw blood.

One sharp comment always begat another. “I’m going to glue it right here to the table top so I don’t have to come over and have you help me pick out a frame for it.”

Phyl had run a little frame shop out of her daylight basement. Although that had been years ago, she still had plenty of old stock. Everyone in the family expected a framed something or other from her for Christmas.

Phyllis's tone was hurt and offended. “Look, I was trying to be interested. I can’t imagine how you could think of such a thing—a collage!—at a time like this. I’m concerned about you, don’t you know that?”

It was true. It was natural for her mother to be concerned. Jane had gone from a great job doing just what she’d always wanted, to no job at all. Not that Mother ever understood why anybody would want to be around sick people, or death, or any of that. Or why anyone in those situations would want Jane there, for that matter. She would not be able to fathom the loss Jane was feeling now, and the mourning it would take to get over it. The hospital had paid well, and that was the language that spoke to Phyllis.

“I know, Mother. I’m sorry. I’m just really sad,” she said lamely.

“What I called you for,” Phyl said, her voice raising with eagerness, “was to tell you about a job I thought you might be interested in. You have that journalism degree that you’ve never used. Your Uncle Fred said that the newspaper….”

Jane stopped her before she could go any further. “Not now, Mom, please. I’m not up to planning ahead yet. I’ll call you tomorrow.” She hung up quickly, breathing a sigh of relief for the quiet. There were enough scolding voices struggling to be heard just within her head. She needed some silence, not alarm, not guilt. Silently she prayed, Please God, help me find your peace.

At 48, having her career pulled out from under her was more than she could cope with. She was feeling old and helpless. I don’t have it in me to just bounce back up, she thought. Sometimes when people fall, they break things.

With that in mind, she opened the refrigerator for some milk. Calcium, good for her bones and even better for soothing her ruffled spirit. Oops, that spot on the shelf was bare.

Darn it, she thought. She’d intended to stop for groceries on the way home. Can’t manage without them. Whatever else happens, dinner must go on. The hungry man we will always have with us, she quipped glumly, reaching for the keys to her car.

Dale wouldn’t be home for a few more hours. She would have time to make some order in the house before starting supper, she realized gratefully. What was it her friend had said, “Welcome chaos?" Something new would come out of this for sure.

It would be easier to tell Dale. He knew the situation. He would hold her and let her cry, and reassure her that they would get through this. But how would they? Being a chaplain is a one-of-a-kind job. There weren’t any openings within driving distance, and neither of them wanted to move to Seattle. Career-wise she had just struck out.

Keep focused here, she told herself. Keep your mind on your driving, nothing else.

Traffic slowed as a truck backed onto the sidewalk in front of the Weekly Mountain Times. A statue of a frog, wearing spectacles and reading a newspaper, was about to be unloaded.

As she passed the library, she noticed another frog statue. That was the third one on this block of Main Street alone. This funny town had adopted a frog theme to attract who knew what. Even the annual summer Pea Festival had changed its name: Muddy Frogwater Days.

Just who are these frogs? she wondered. There should be a story behind each one of them, if there isn’t already. She parked quickly in front of the library and ran in. No, the librarian didn’t know the frog’s name or anything else about it.

The first smile of the day flickered on Jane’s face as she drove off. At least it will give me something fun to think about while I’m home writing resumes: “The Registry of Muddy Frogwater’s First Family of Frogs.” She tucked the idea away for another day.


Jane opened her eyes and stretched. It was past 8 o’clock. Dale had let her sleep in, and it felt good. The sun was warm coming through the window; the birds were singing several songs at once. But it wasn’t the weekend yet, she thought, confused. Then she remembered, no job to go to.

All the terrible awfuls were lined up waiting to hit her next. She wasn’t a chaplain any more, just a woman out of work. Her friends, oh her friends at the hospital! They wouldn’t even know what happened. She hardly knew any of them socially. It was the work experience that pulled them together into a team, nothing else. There wasn’t enough common ground to sustain friendships outside the hospital in their busy lives, she was sure. She began to cry.

Enough of that, she thought, but it wasn’t so simple. She sobbed again in the shower. She struggled to get dressed: did she even have any ‘at home’ clothes? Finally, she was ready to do something.

Dale had listened as she knew he would. He had reassured her, as others did on the phone later that morning, reminding her that God had something else in mind for her. He told her he loved her and not to worry. Before he left for work he had moved the things from her office out of the way and into the spare bedroom. She started there.

The big African violet from her office window sill had been neglected too long: two extra crowns were forming in it. Jane took it out to her makeshift potting shed and added soil to three small pots in preparation. Carefully, she eased the dirt ball out of the container and shook away the dirt from the roots. With a sharp knife, she divided the root mass, separating the two new plantlets from the main plant. One had branched so low from the main stem that it hardly had any roots of its own. She didn’t have much hope for it, but she potted it anyway.

Transplanting was the perfect metaphor for her life today, and she prayed that these small plants would live and thrive and bloom.

She thought about the frogs statues as she worked: a little girl lying on her stomach reading a library book; a lady in a red dress, her arms stacked with gift boxes; a barber, standing proudly behind his barber pole. She’d start with a tour of the town, taking pictures of each one and talking to the people who owned them.

First things first, she told herself as she booted up the computer. Now where would I have filed my old resume?

With dismay she realized that her last one predated her computer. She had no idea where to look in the file cabinet. There was no file heading for resumes there.

She stared at the blank word document for several minutes. How did one begin?
Her neck and shoulders were tense, and she felt her resentment growing. I don't want to do this, she shouted and got up from the chair. It isn’t fair!

She strode to the kitchen, poured herself a cup of coffee, and stood there breathing deeply. Finally she felt back in control. She marched herself back to the study, reseated herself in front of the computer and began to type.

“The first statue commissioned by our city to commemorate our fine frog ancestors is the one in front of the library. It was erected to honor Lulu Hopper, the first frog in Muddy-Frogwater to learn to read.

Once just a tadpole in the window well outside the old Carnegie Library, Lulu was never far from books. One summer while hunting flies, Lulu hopped up the steps behind a girl whose friends were straggling behind her. As the girl held the door open, scolding the group for being so slow, several flies flew past. Lulu saw her opportunity and in she went behind them.

It was a strange, new world for Lulu inside. Tables, chairs, shelves and books as far as she could see: nothing looked familiar. At least there was some water. A small bowl of it had been put out for the library cat who was nowhere to be seen. Three or four humans stood peering at the shelves, picking out books to take home. They’d read a page or two and then tuck the book under their arm or put it back and go on to another. Lulu was careful to stay out of their way because they certainly weren’t looking where they were stepping.

To the left of the door was a wide rack for magazines, and Lulu hopped up on it. She could see better from there. By this time she was curious. The only time frogs paid that close attention to anything was when they were on the trail of a fly. Something else was happening here, and Lulu wanted to find out what it was.

The giggling girls descended on the magazines, and Lulu sat very still. She had chosen a Yard and Garden picture to blend into, and she watched and listened as the girls turned pages and exclaimed.

“Oh look, a frog!” a girl in a pink sweater squealed. Her big hand reached out, and before she could do anything Lula was caught.

“Hello little froggy. What are you doing? Trying to learn to read?”
Pinky held her loosely, and all the girls clustered around her to see.

“Oh isn’t she cute?” they cooed.
Lulu didn’t know what to do, so she did nothing.

“I could teach you how to read,” Pinky said. She spread the magazines on the table and set Lulu down beside them. “Maybe I should start with some children’s readers,” she said, and the girls all left to go gather some.

This was Lulu’s chance. She could escape while there was no one watching her, but she didn’t. She stayed, and in the course of the summer, they taught her how to read. This was in 1972. By the summer of ’73 the clever librarian set up a display of books facing the window well, and Lulu began to teach other young frogs to read without having to face the perils of people's feet and the heavy library doors.

In 1976 at the nation’s bicentennial festival, the mayor awarded Lulu a medal. When he lowered it around her neck, he could see that it was too heavy for her to wear. She couldn't hop a single hop. So he kindly removed it and offered to put it on display in the library window. It read: “To Lulu Hopper, Muddy-Frogwater’s First Literate Frog.” Lulu was so proud.

Smiling, Jane saved the page as “Lulu_hopper” and printed it. Then she began her web-search for a guide to writing resumes.

It was difficult for Jane to make progress at the task. She knew it was her attitude that was getting in the way, but there it was. After an hour or so she let herself take a break and went to the kitchen to make some coffee. Hearing the sound of a car in the driveway, she looked out the window and saw her mother pulling in. She relaxed her shoulders deliberately, put on a smile and went to the door.

Phyl had a big potted violet in her arms.

“Hi, honey, are you feeling any better today?” she asked, wearing her sympathethic look. She patted Jane’s cheek and, without waiting for an answer, said, “I’m giving you one of your grandmother’s violets to cheer you up. I’ll go put it in your study. It will get the best light there.”

“I was just going to have a cup of coffee, Mother. Would you like some?”

“Yes, please,” Phyl answered over her departing shoulder.

They met back at the kitchen table, a warm little nook with great light but no window sills. Fumbling with her voluminous handbag, Phyl slid into the seat. It was a pleasant kitchen, and she closed her eyes a moment, enjoying the sunshine falling across her shoulders. “So, now, tell me,” she said.

Jane struggled with what to say. She wanted to be open and truthful, but she didn’t want to start crying again. She went back over her story, putting in some humor when she could. Phyl interjected little pieces of advice and consolation as she no doubt thought a mother should. Jane managed to remain calm and kind. The whole conversation was over soon enough, cut short by Phyl’s need to get to her haircut appointment. Jane had just gotten to the part about the resume when Phyl looked at the clock. “Oops, gotta go, sweetie. I’m glad to see you’re feeling better. I hope you’ll like the violet. Don’t get water on the leaves.”

Jane was relieved to have that conversation over.

The day past, and the next. The little transplants were holding in there, and they flanked the big ‘family’ violet nicely. There were no interesting jobs in the newspaper, but she looked every day just in case. She wrote and rewrote her resume, and prayed that her attitude would improve and something interesting would come up.

And one day it did.

One sunny morning Jane found in her mailbox a letter from the local newspaper. She opened it, puzzled, and read: “Dear Mrs. Carl, We heard with interest your idea featuring the city’s frog statues, and we liked your first story very much. Please call us to set up an appointment to talk with our local editor about other stories you have planned and a possible opening here on our staff.”

"Mother!" she exclaimed. "How did you do this?" She felt confused. Then, remembering the story she had printed out the other day, the same day Phyl had taken the plant to her study, she felt annoyed.

By the time she reached the house, she could feel a little sunshine coming out inside her. It might be fun!

Excited, she picked up the phone and called her husband. Unaccustomed to mid-day calls from her, he asked, “Are you okay?”

“I think," she said, "I'm going to be fine, just fine.”