January 17, 2019

That’s So Pat! 1/17/19

Hey there! Pat here with some toad-ally exciting news! I’m launching an advice column about life — from toad rage to the DaVinci Toad! Send your questions and I vow to always give Pat answers!

I’m listening . . .

My very first question is from a Richard Feder in White Flint, New Jersey who writes:

Dear Pat: I can’t stand the cold in winter. I never want to leave my house. I just want to crawl into a warm bed until spring. My neighbors never see me. They probably think I’m crazy. What should I do?

Dear Richard: First of all, if I lived in New Jersey, I’d never want to leave my house, either. So sorry. Second, I feel your pain. You probably don’t know that toads hibernate in winter, i.e., they crawl into a warm bed until spring. Here’s an artist rendition of what that looks like:

Richard, that’s an image of what I should be doing right now, but due to a mystery beyond my comprehension, I’ve turned into stone and have been living outside in conditions similar to yours.

The toad less travelled.

Luckily for me, a neighbor provided this shelter (above) of Lincoln logs, but Richard, there is no bed. It gets so cold sometimes, I want to croak. However, I do have one thing that you may not have — a winter hat atop my head at a jaunty angle. A hat provides not only warmth, but isn’t all that comfortable to wear to bed, so you probably won’t crawl in and hibernate until spring. And because I am committed to being toad-ally helpful, may I suggest that you try and acquire this hat (below)? Trust me, wear this once outside your home and you’ll be the talk of the neighborhood!

Toad-ally awesome!

Thank you for your question, Richard. Let me know how if my advice is helpful because I tend to jump to conclusions.

Hop on! Pat

11 Comments

  • As Pat’s agent, I want you to know that she is completely serious about answering any and all of your questions. Please don’t hesitate to send them her way, and she’ll provide her inimitable Pat answers in future posts.

    • Kelly — I just showed Pat the video featured in the link in your post. That’s quite a love story. Pat’s a bit jealous, of course, because she believes that she would have been a wonderful “Juliet” for Romeo. That she isn’t makes her wonder if she has much wisdom when it comes to dating, but she loves a challenge. Stay tuned to a future post and thank you for your suggestion!

  • I like how you shoveled a pathway to Pat’s house. A very fun post, Sharie. Can’t wait to submit a question or two to Pat. Stay tuned……… xoxoxo

    • Merrie Lee — Pat awaits your questions. She, too, likes how Sharon shoveled a path to her house. Pat would have preferred to be waiting for Spring in the garbage bin, but Sharon is storing a large garden hose in there for the winter. Luckily, her neighbor Lyn came to the rescue with the Lincoln logs.

  • Oh, Pat, I am so sad. I just learned of Mary Oliver’s death. I am also so grateful for the legacy of poems she left behind. Pat, what is your favorite Mary Oliver poem?

    • Dear Beth — this is truly sad, sad news. In turbulent times like these, we need poets, particularly poets who see grace everywhere. I know Sharon loves Mary Oliver, so I asked her what her favorite Oliver poem was, and I will post it here. Before a public reading about 20 years ago, Sharon told Mary Oliver that this poem was her favorite. Oliver replied, “I’m not reading that poem today.” Then in the middle of the reading, Oliver said, “I wasn’t planning to read this poem today, but before the reading, someone told me that this was her favorite poem of mine.” So she read it.

      Again, I am so very sorry that Mary Oliver has left this sweet world. Sharon plans to post about Oliver in the next couple of days and everyone here can post their favorite Oliver poems.

      SINGAPORE

      In Singapore, in the airport,
      A darkness was ripped from my eyes.
      In the women’s restroom, one compartment stood open.
      A woman knelt there, washing something in the white bowl.

      Disgust argued in my stomach
      and I felt, in my pocket, for my ticket.

      A poem should always have birds in it.
      Kingfishers, say, with their bold eyes and gaudy wings.
      Rivers are pleasant, and of course trees.
      A waterfall, or if that’s not possible, a fountain rising and falling.
      A person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem.

      When the woman turned I could not answer her face.
      Her beauty and her embarrassment struggled together,
      and neither could win.
      She smiled and I smiled. What kind of nonsense is this?
      Everybody needs a job.

      Yes, a person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem.
      But first we must watch her as she stares down at her labor,
      which is dull enough.
      She is washing the tops of the airport ashtrays, as big as hubcaps,
      with a blue rag.
      Her small hands turn the metal, scrubbing and rinsing.
      She does not work slowly, nor quickly, like a river.
      Her dark hair is like the wing of a bird.

      I don’t doubt for a moment that she loves her life.
      And I want her to rise up from the crust and the slop and
      fly down to the river.
      This probably won’t happen.
      But maybe it will.
      If the world were only pain and logic, who would want it?

      Of course, it isn’t.
      Neither do I mean anything miraculous, but only
      the light that can shine out of a life. I mean
      the way she unfolded and refolded the blue cloth,
      The way her smile was only for my sake; I mean
      the way this poem is filled with trees, and birds.


      Rest in peace, Mary Oliver.

    • Dear Carol, I am glad that you found my post a delight! I wasn’t expecting, of course, to launch it on a day that would bring sadness to the world of poetry. But Mary Oliver thought toads worthy of eloquence, too:

      TOADS

      I was walking by. He was sitting there.

      It was full morning, so the heat was heavy on his sand-colored
      head and his webbed feet. I squatted beside him, at the edge
      of the path. He didn’t move.

      I began to talk. I talked about summer, and about time. The
      pleasures of eating, the terrors of the night. About this cup
      we call a life. About happiness. And how good it feels, the
      heat of the sun between the shoulder blades.

      He looked neither up nor down, which didn’t necessarily
      mean he was either afraid or asleep. I felt his energy, stored
      under his tongue perhaps, and behind his bulging eyes.

      I talked about how the world seems to me, five feet tall, the
      blue sky all around my head. I said, I wondered how it seemed
      to him, down there, intimate with the dust.

      He might have been Buddha— did not move, blink, or frown,
      not a tear fell from those gold-rimmed eyes as the refined
      anguish of language passed over him.

      — From New and Selected Poems, Vol. 2

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