Musings About George

I always wondered what it would be like to live in the same town forever. To know that my parents, grandparents, and all my ancestors had lived in the same town since the town was first born. The cycle was broken with my parents who moved a great deal when we were young, about every two years.

Because my family frequently moved, I never developed any lifelong friendships. I never got to know anyone long enough. As I grew older, I never had girlhood memories to share with anybody over the phone as my children bustled underfoot. I always looked for a friend like that, worked hard to develop one in the short time spent anywhere. A friend with whom I could be my crazy, riotous, unpredictable self. I never managed to find one until George entered my life. No, he was not my husband. He is a ceramic bullfrog on a stump in my yard.

This stump is all that is left of a tree. I do not know what type of tree it was. I just know it is a magnificent stump. Its stubby height, covered with patches of scaly bark, looks more like a child in the last stages of chicken pox than a tree. It is not very big around, all gnarly and twisted. During warm summer rains, this stump explodes with toadstools. These toadstools give it the appearance of some grotesque alien about to declare war on your knees. It is a comforting stump. It has developed character and oneness with its surroundings that I find refreshing.

When George first appeared two years ago, he was sitting silently on this stump. I had gone out to plant tulips when I saw him. Staring straight ahead, with a contented air about him, he seemed to settle in for a spell. George is constant, stationary, always predictable. I would always go and talk to him. Just the other day, I was upset with my boss. “George,” I said, “this man can be so insensitive. He is the biggest eavesdropper I know. He shamelessly listens in on every conversation in my office.” What did George say? Nothing. He sat there silently.

He is the one friend I had searched for. The perfect friend who never tells me what to do. “What should I do about my co-worker’s problem?” I would ask. George would say nothing. He never suggests courses of action. His advice is never wrong because he never gives any.

“What would happen if I quit everything and just disappeared? Do you think anyone would care? Should I tell everyone what I really think?” George, as usual, gave no indication of approval or disapproval. No thought is ever too crazy, too bizarre, to share with George. He never condemns. He is that one friend I have looked for all my life. The one I wanted to share my deepest secrets, my brightest hopes, with.

“Let me tell you what happened,” I would breathlessly whisper to George. I shared with him all those things I dared not tell another human being. Deep, dark secrets. Things that I would never speak about to another person. I knew my secrets would be safe. He could never tell my secrets because he could not speak.

I often wondered about his background. Has he been as restless and rootless as I have been? Had he sat patiently on some store shelf waiting for someone to accept him, take him home? I have asked him these questions. But he never answers. I stare into his incredible hazel eyes and see nothing. It’s as if his only purpose is to become what I need, a friend that will always be there. He has stuck by me in all seasons, from the turbulent springtime through the howling winter winds with the snowflakes coating everything in white deliciousness.

Just as I need a home, need friends, need a base, George needs a stump. I know that wherever my roaming in this world takes me, George will go along. I can’t imagine life without him.