Meet Frank, the long-legged velvet frog who once kept order in my music classroom and somehow became my most faithful writing companion. Here’s how, years ago, he hopped into my suitcase for Honduras, and why he still has a seat beside every story I write.
Frank began as a small green frog, well, not exactly small. From head to rump he’s about eight or nine inches tall, with another nine inches of legs that fold neatly in a cross-legged sit. Long and lanky, made of soft green velvet, he has the kind of face that makes you feel he’s listening, really listening, with patient amusement.
He once wore a red-and-gold vest and a tiny crown, both long since retired, but his posture still carries a quiet air of dignity.
Frank became our class mascot when I was teaching music in Honduras and later in Belize. He could hold the miniature violins or trombones we made, model a fingering position, or demonstrate “rest position” with perfect patience. The students loved him, kindergarteners to high school seniors, (surprisingly!) every one of them. He became the calm authority in the room, and the one who both explained and encouraged. The reward for following instructions was simple: the chance to hold Frank.
Can you just imagine a tall, handsome senior boy with striking black hair and beautiful Honduran features, vying for his turn to hold a velvet frog? There was something unexpectedly dear about it.
My friend, Fay, generously created my website and suggested I use it to share stories of teaching and traveling. I am so grateful she did because it opened a new world of connection with friends, family, acquaintances, and now readers I’ve never even met. I named the blog Frankly Jane to honor Frank and to signal that I would write with sincerity, clarity, and plainspokenness.
I dreamed of writing a book, too, and one day, inspired by the epistolary style of my all-time favorite novel, A Woman of Independent Means by Elizabeth Forsythe Hailey, I decided I’d practice. I wrote a blog post as a letter to Frank. It was meant to be lighthearted, a playful reflection told through his familiar presence. (And although Frank happens to be velvet and long-legged, I assure you, I am quite sane. At least I think so.)
To my surprise, that letter came more easily than anything I’d ever written. The tone felt natural, unguarded, warm, just the slightest bit mischievous, and sometimes witty, sometimes contemplative. Writing to Frank helped me speak plainly, without hesitation or performance. Readers seemed to love it. They said they could hear my voice. They encouraged me to keep going, maybe even write a book someday! So yes, “Katie, bar the door,” as they say, I took that encouragement to heart and I kept writing.
Frank isn’t a muse or a metaphor. He’s simply a listening presence: one who helps the words find their way. When I write to him, the sentences straighten themselves out. That’s our unspoken agreement. (Though, to be fair, only one of us can type.)
Frank is still here, observant, steady, quietly amused by all my human tangles. He helps me remember that imagination and truth are not strangers to each other, they are simply two sides of the same coin.
Because sometimes, all we really need in order to speak honestly is someone who listen, even if he happens to be a velvet frog with long legs and a knowing smile.
Love,
Jane
P. S. We all have our own version of Frank, someone real or almost real, or something that helps us see our lives more clearly, or write them down more truly.
Who listens to your stories when your thoughts and contemplations begin to stir?
