We gather at the path beside our town’s marsh pond: five old women, three old men, and one tagalong seven-year-old grandson, Joey.
What better place for my Senior Center haiku class to appreciate Basho’s renowned frog haiku.
A breeze stirs the reeds. Sunlight glorifies the water lilies. Morning’s rush-hour thrum has ended. Our only requirement is a frog.
Maevis, a retired nurse: “Oh, fudge! I forgot to apply repellent!”
From my backpack I pull a spray can which, passed around, envelops us in an acrid fog. Finally we set forth, Joey out front.
My two bewhiskered fellows—Lewis, a food bank coordinator, and Leo, a practicing curmudgeon who addresses me as “Teach”—immediately fall behind. In class they allow the women to dominate discussions.
LaVonne, with a retail past: “I wore the wrong shoes. The grass is still wet!”
Teach: “Listen. What do you hear?”
Everyone pauses.
Jolene, who taught history to high schoolers for 28 years: “Nothing.”
Leo: “So where’s the frogs?”
Janice, forever the naturalist: “They’re greatly in decline. We all know why.”
A sudden “plop!” draws our eyes to the pond. Joey readies to launch a second stone scavenged underfoot. Octogenarian Evelyn, still sporting yoga pants from an earlier class, intones a command to check her grandson.
Leo, under his breath to Lewis: “Kids!”
We make good headway, stepping quietly—until a honking, neck-thrusting gander erupts from the reeds to challenge us.
Janice, chirping: “He’s protecting that nest at water’s edge. See it?”
Lewis, nudging Leo: “Good with dumplings and kraut.”
Janice, frowning at the men, raises her arms and advances on the gander—the latter slowly retreating through the reeds.
LaVonne: “Watch your step. We’re in a minefield.”
Our focus, already fragmented, devolves into avoiding goose poop littering our way.
Joey: “Look! On that log!”
Janice: “Good find! A painted turtle.”
Jolene, whispering to Maevis: “Who’s leading this expedition, anyway?”
One of the men behind me launches a “harrumph”.
The Senior Center enlisted me, locally notorious as a poet. What had I been thinking?
The pond is small, our path and patience short. A few more minutes of mosquitoes—and we concede, taking a sidewalk back to our starting point, avoiding goose and minefield. I snatch up a rock as we arrive.
Teach: “In my hand poises our frog. If we can just open ourselves to this moment…”
Plop!
Evelyn: “I feel the ripples.”
Jolene, sarcastically: “Existential.”
Janice, sighing: “And what’s become of the dragonflies?”
LaVonne: “I’ll be out of town next week.”
Maevis is checking for ticks. Lewis and Leo smirk.
Ow! I swat the back of my neck. Deer fly!
Leo, brushing the corpse from my collar: “Way to go, Teach, you got it!”
Lewis: “Yeh, they wake you right up!”
Teach, spotting a lifeline: “Very good—that’s Basho’s frog!”
Two departing guffaws. Three footwear opinions. One observation about degraded habitats. And “Gramma, I’m hungry.” Lesson hard-earned.
INSTANT NOODLES 