572: “I Love Being a Frog” (Reale & Lobel)

                “I love being a frog in the warm sunny summer—”
                -Frog in Willie and Robert Reale’s A Year With Frog And Toad, which adapts the books from Arnold Lobel

                I’ve been thinking about heat lately—perhaps because the temperature keeps laughing past 90; perhaps because I’ve been remembering my time teaching in India, where the temperature kept laughing high numbers—and then my partner and I listened to A Year With Frog and Toad on a long drive. The heat washing down from the sky. The rain washing, too, though briefly, a flood across the windshield that dried a few minutes later. And my partner said, “There’s so much love for the everyday of life in this.” This the musical. We keep talking about it as something that’s going on. (It is, in my head, like the sun and the rain). This the drive together. This lounging on the couch now as the shade deepens toward evening. This being welcomed home as who you are, as Arnold Lobel was eventually welcomed home. Later his daughter Adrianne Lobel commissioned the play.
                Jay Goede gives Frog his singing voice in the original Broadway cast. He swells up with “looovveee,” drawing it out. Holding it up. As if there’s as much of it as there is warm sunny summer. As, I suppose, there is. When I first heard the song I didn’t like it as much as some of the other numbers. I wondered if it was too much. I wasn’t sure what it was about. Now it’s been running through my head for days, delightfully. And I realize: oh, yes. It’s—in part, at least—about this.

521: “A Song I Never Would’ve Heard”

                “…sharing a song I never would’ve heard and been struck dumb with glee by had I had my shit more together.” -Ross Gay, “Among the Rewards of My Sloth…” The Book of Delights p. 123
                “I thought to anchor my essay in an interdisciplinary epigraph, then delve into the reasons and ways that assessment could and should sidestep the standard language ideology […] Here I was.” -Maria José Palacios Figueroa, “Too-long reflections on washback”

                My partner and I have started—well, started again—reading The Book of Delights out loud together before bed. We also started last year, or two years ago, and then fell off. The pages fluttering by fast like fall leaves all a-whirl, then pausing, a frozen winter morning, sleepy and bright. Now it’s turning into a game with us. We just celebrated our first anniversary. We’ve been noting, a delight of being married is this, a delight of being married is that. (And yes, I’m coy: those delights are ours, for us, we’ll share them maybe if you visit, but not here). And a game for the everyday, every day, too. Today’s delight: lying on the floor. The complete release of it. Today’s delight: wrestling with my dissertation. Today’s delight: a friend visiting, and the fried zucchini (from our garden!) we shared. Now the crickets (I think they’re crickets?), not in that written way of crickets to mean silence, but singing.
                By which I mean: it’s 9:30 pm and I meant to start writing this sooner. I knew it was Wednesday. I knew I would post something. By which I mean: I’m glad I didn’t write this sooner. One of my favorite things writing can do is open to an experience of making, a space where I thought to start this way and yet here I am far off from my expectations. What a delight. The little dance of whatever we’re thinking about, together, here, and the crickets singing summer.