I’m so excited about my husband’s new book! Reviews have been fantastic. Life is short and if you are worried that you are squandering your days with surfing and tweeting, your eyes always fixed on a screen– and desperately hoping to find happiness there — this book will inspire you.
A few photos from our the Cape Cod sailing trip that I wrote about in this month’s Conde Nast Traveler.
I’m not sure if I should be flattered — or very troubled — that I am the only woman writer in the new Esquire collection or that the subtitle is “What it Means To Be A Man.” Hey, I may not be a porcelain doll but I’m not a man, either! Seriously, though, I’m very happy to be in great company, and to be able to read Tom Junod’s great essay again about his father’s fashion tips. It is one of the best things he’s ever done.
I was recently asked by Patagonia.com to write about a “backyard corridor” experience for its environmentalism campaign. If you don’t know what a backyard corridor is, read on . . .
By Martha Sherrill
He was so huge, the biggest green frog I’d ever seen. And he was sitting – utterly motionless — on a stone step leading down to our front door. He was a long way from the upper pond. Was he okay? Our spaniel was barking at him, barking and barking. But the frog was strangely calm. I wondered if he was sick.
Maybe he’s dying, I thought. He’s so huge. He must be a million years old.
I dragged the dog by the collar to get him into the house. I was afraid he’d pick up the frog and start tossing him in the air, the way he tosses around half-dead mice, chipmunks, the occasional baby skunk. By the time I returned to the stone step — to bend over the big frog, to swoon at him with my human pity, my ideas about his advanced age and imminent death — he began to hop away.
His hops were high and long. His sense of direction seemed flawless. A frog in his prime. He was aiming for the southeast corner of our house. He landed gently on the grass, where he blended in, and then he exploded into the air like a green missile.
He turned the corner, almost hugging the curve in midair. He continued on, down a slope of ground that let to another pond, below our house. I’d come across other frogs in our south garden and figured they were lost hikers. But now I realized there was a frog highway that connected the two ponds.
Later that summer, when ducklings were born in the lower pond, their mother would lead them through the woods on the north side of our house. They’d walk in a row, single-file, like obedient school children, heading toward the upper pond to swim.
So we had two corridors, as far as we could tell. The ducks, before they learned to fly over us, traveled on the north side. The frogs use the south. Had they worked out a traffic flow pattern between them? Our house began to feel like a toll booth, except there’s no toll to pay. They just have to get by our dog. And they always do.