I love my little pond. It was the source of incredible joy for both my Mother in Law and my Father, in their eighties. So, every time I walk around it I feel their presence. It attracts strange characters, between herons, ospreys, kingfishers, snakes, and gazillion frogs.
Sometimes, walking around at night can be beautiful. However, I worry about the coyotes and bears that are too real around here. The Pepe Le Pews I can handle. Skiddle doo. And the porcupines: am ashamed to say I only learnt recently that they don’t hurl the quills; that’s cartoon nonsense. HAH! I believed the cartoons, and am a bit deflated knowing that it was nonsense.
Yet, the big bucks have butted heads with our benches, hurling them into the pond… not once, nor twice… (by the way, all old saltwater little farms in this area must have a pond, because there are no fire hydrants around!).
My Father would stare at the great blue heron and ask me for the umpteenth time: “Barbara, what is heron in Spanish?” “Garza,” I would reply. “Oh, my, watch that garza, how stealthily it walks…” And on and on. How I wish he were here today with me asking the same question, over and over again. I never got tired of it. I loved it.
It is this dear little pond with its many bullfrogs and frogs, that finally made me understand a beautiful Argentine folk song, which I have loved since I was a 7 year old. Because, whenever there is a moon, it rises and reflects on this little pond.
Isn’t it weird that a little pond in the far away North of the USA, close to the Canadian border, helped me fully understand the poignancy of a folk song that originated way, way South, in the southern tip of the Americas, close to Antarctica?
I identify with the toad, and now realize that my melancholy about the lyrical toad song was prescient. Life’s trials and tribulations have confirmed to me that the moon can be cold, because it gave its blood to form the stars, and that life can be dismal if we don’t live it with any hope.
The Lyrical Toad
By Los Chalchaleros
Toad of the night, lyrical toad,
Who lives dreaming next to your lagoon,
Tenor of the puddles, grotesque troubadour,
You're bewitched by your love for the moon.
I know of your life devoid of glory;
And know the tragedies of your restless soul
Likewise, that madness of loving the moon
Is the eternal madness of every poet.
Lyrical toad,
Sing your song,
Because life is dismal
If we don't live it with any hope
You know that you're ugly, ugly and misshapen;
That's why by day you hide your ugliness
And by night you sing your melancholy
And your song resounds as a litany.
Your voices ring out in candid obstinacy;
Your verses are in vain for their striking beauty;
Don't you know, perchance, that the moon is cold,
Because it gave its blood to form the stars?
Lyrical toad
Sing your song,
Because life is dismal
If we don't live it with any hope.
Dum Spiro Spero 