Frog Hollow: local frogs set up house

Meet Chuck, the brown (in this case, blue) tree frog.  He is head tenant in this tall blue long-neck vase that stands on our upstairs balcony. 

The vase has a bell-shaped base, and has collected rainwater about 3cm deep, so he can take a dip whenever he feels a little dry.

Frog Hollow neighbourhood

Frog hollow

 Here is the lay-out of Frog Hollow.  Chuck lives in the front vase.  The tallest vase behind appears to be vacant.

Luxury hi rise accommodation for frogs

These blue vases are, no doubt, luxury hi rise accommodation for local frogs.  They can enjoy the private bathing amenities while a narrow funnel protects them from predators, such as birds and cats.  Some catering, provided by mosquito lavae in the resident pond, is also a drawcard. 

Not-so-luxurious accommodation 

For frogs on a lower economic status, the metal watering can - as seen on the left-hand side of the photo - does offer short term accommodation.  The spout is a nice snuggle fit, with a window at one end and a pool at the other.

Problems do arise if the watering can is actually used for watering the pot plants, and the frog is poured out with the flow.

A considerate householder will refill the watering can and turn away, allowing the frog to steal into the spout without being seen.

Chuck's next door neighbour

The rear vase (not the tallest) also has a tiny tenant.  Here he is, looking blue and alert.

As yet, he has no name, and suggestions will be welcome. 

Chuck's next door neighbour (he needs a name)

Chuck meets Cindy


Yesterday morning, I looked in on Chuck, and found that a friend had moved in with him.  Her name is Cindy.  Here is a picture of the happy couple.

Chuck and Cindy

Squishy, I know.  But what do I understand about a frog's need for personal space?


Chuck and Cindy split up

Today - 24 hours after I witnessed their union - I looked in on Chuck and Cindy, and found Chuck was alone.  Only he met my eye as I peered down the funnel.

I guess they have split up, but what do I know about frog relationships?

Perhaps a one night stand is as long term as it gets for frogs.

Mind you, Chuck looked quite fat...



TO BE CONTINUED

Tom waits for Godot

Tom volunteers to help me defrost the freezer. He is my 17 year old son, and has homework to avoid.  His essay about the play Waiting for Godot* is due tomorrow.  He claims a little housework will clear his brain and help him to think.

Perhaps, I speculate, he hopes to find Godot in the freezer, but he ignores any sarcasm in the air.

The freezer is the trough type, with a lid that lifts with a whining of hinges.  Tom is large and cheerful and genuinely interested in the solid frame of ice that has formed a ridge around the top of the freezer.

'How often do you defrost the freezer?' he asks, as we dislodge frozen meat and ravioli and shake off the splinters of ice.

'When we run out of ice cream,' I reply, dodging the real answer.

The drifts of ice around the freezer wall can probably be carbon dated back to his conception, while the use-by dates on the small frozen dinners expired five years ago.  I ditch them.

When the freezer is empty, Tom leans down into the trough, and gathers up the loose peanuts.

Several years ago, I had discovered that you can freeze peanuts.  Not only do they stay fresh, but they are delicious when eaten frozen.

However, they come in cellophane bags and these do not respond so positively to sub zero temperatures.  After a time not yet scientifically measured - but I'd estimate 10 minutes - the cellophane splits and the nuts spill and congregate in a naked state at the bottom of the freezer, along with a slush of ice and elderly bread crumbs and broken frozen pizza.  I ditch them.

Tom and I stack the frozen pies, ravioli, bread and pizza into a freezer basket, hoping that togetherness will stop them from thawing immediately.  It is becoming clear that they will thaw much more readily than the ice around the top of the freezer.

Being a hot mid-summer day, we agree that it would be foolish to wait for the ice to melt, and that it must be chipped off by a strong man.

Tom - he assures me - that that strong man.  Anything rather than write an essay on Waiting for Godot.

I supply him with the job-specific implement: a stout plastic spade which had been supplied with the freezer.  It disappoints him.  He had had his eye on the carving knife so he could attack the ice with a virility in keeping with his puberty.

I explain that a knife would lacerate the freezer walls.  He does not see that as an obstacle but something a mother would invent to spoil his fun.

At first, the plastic spade does not seem meet its job description, but time is on its side.  The ice succumbs under the pressure of Tom's heavy breathing and heat-wave temperatures and it falls, with perfectly satisfying thuds, to the freezer floor.

The lumps of ice are shaped like seed glaciers, and we dump them into a large plastic container and while I wash the freezer walls, Tom takes his treasure to the kitchen sink.

Being a child of mild Australia climate, he is starved of snow and ice and other sub-zero playthings.  He empties it into the kitchen sink and as it softens, he coaxes it into a limp snowman shape.  Then he subjects it to a flow of tap water which sears an instant hole.

He discovers that the running water will melt single pieces into instant shapes that hold their form only if whipped away from the water at the moment of conception.

He becomes a master craftsman, the creator of all things ice: he finds a face with a jagged grin, a camel, a half star.

Then it melts, no longer ice but its unfrozen form, only to wash away, until nothing is left but a pile of soggy peanuts trying to escape down the plug hole.

Not knowing that this is indeed the theme of his essay, Tom goes back to his desk - and waits for Godot.

*Waiting for Godot is a play about two men who sit under a tree and wait for Godot.  Its theme is the passing of time, the tedium of waiting, the futility of living and the finality of being washed down the plug hole.  Furthermore, Godot stands them up.

A suburban fairy tale: the bank robber's lunch

It all started when our local post office-cum-bank agency was robbed.  

A man wearing a balaclava came into the agency and pointed a gun at Mr Limberger, the proprietor.  He took $4,000 in cash, $100 in postage stamps and Mr Limberger's lunch.

A few weeks later, it happened again, and the same things were stolen - money, stamps and lunch.

After that, Mr Limberger built three windows with wooden bars across the counter.  It looked official but not very bullet-proof.

Our post office was actually a mixed business where we could bank our money, buy stamps, newspapers, house paint, bicycle parts and sweets.  

It was the only shop on our little suburban peninsulah except for the butcher next door.  And he was never robbed, probably because he always held a long sharp knife.

But the bars did not stop the robber.  He came again and took the cash box with Mr Limberger's lunch inside it.  

Unfortunately, the key to the community hall was also in the cash box.  This was the cause of some stress because the shop's only toilet was inside the hall.

Which is why Mr Limberger climbed through the side window of the hall.  He was half way through when the policeman grabbed him by the ankles.

Mr Limberger explained the situation but the policeman insisted they go to the police station.

While Mr Limberger was filling out the police forms someone broke into the shop.  This burglar did not bother with money or stamps.  He just took Mr Limberger's lunch.

This was the last straw.  Mr Limberger took action.  He installed a glass fronted refrigerated counter in the front of the shop, then he bought 17 types of cheeses, six different breads and buns, quiches, salamis, pickles and spreads.  

At noon, he put on an apron and made lunches like the ones which had been stolen.

He was an instant success.  Everyone bought his lunches.  

He made so much money, he built his own toilet behind the shop.

And he was never robbed again.