The Frenchman was out of place in his new home next to the Cady Marsh Ditch. It was a rental, shared with his wife of two years. She wanted a garden. He wanted a dog. Pat, the electrician who lived across the street, was friendly, even though he was a Redneck’s Redneck, who didn’t care for his niece’s names for the cattle he raised. “They’re all Tee Bones and Sir Loin to me!” he declared.
The human frog learned to expect the chorus of frogs coming from the Cady Marsh, even if he never loved it. Parisian to the core, the antics of the politicians were much more fascinating to him than the cricket choir; the cycles of the leanings of the electorate more noteworthy than the canvas of the sky at sunset; experimentation with new varieties of over-ripe Camembert prioritized over those of fresh green beans.