Getting Swamped

Chapter 24: Something Borrowed

Piggy had made an entrance pretty much every night she’d been there, and had also, with alarming frequency, made a spectacle of herself. Still, nothing she had done to date had garnered more sheer astonishment than her arrival that night.
The newest The Frogs were fashionably and predictably late, having seen the last of the afternoon swimmers graciously off. By the time they had gathered the last of their things (which is to say, Piggy’s things), and made their way back to their own place, Piggy felt compelled to redo her toilette and take a little extra time with her hair. The perm she had embraced for filming was succumbing to time and wear and swamp water. She brushed it into soft waves, the ends still curling into ringlets, but seemed dissatisfied and finally sent Kermit ahead.
She arrived in the clearing some ten minutes after her husband, wearing a pink linen dress. It was sleeveless to show off her plump and rosy arms, and she had resumed her lavender satin gloves, but it was not the dress or the gloves that made the crowd stare in startled disbelief. It was the scarf—THE scarf—the one that Kermit had bought for Maggie on her first visit to him on the set of Sesame Street—that caught everyone’s attention. Piggy was wearing it to hold her hair back from her face, and had it tied into a soft fluffy bow just in front of her ears. In a society where clothing was scarce to nonexistent, something as distinctive as Margaret’s cherished, much-bandied-about dainty was as individual as a fingerprint.
Even Jane looked flabbergasted at the sight of that cherished trifle adorning Piggy’s tresses, but she covered quickly, reaching out to take Piggy’s hands in hers.
“How, um, pretty you look,” she said hastily. “And, um, what a lovely scarf you’re wearing.”
Piggy’s first love—even before Kermit—had been the stage. Had she been in the largest theatre on Broadway, her voice would have carried distinctly to the back row.
“Why thank you,” she said, one hand going for her hair. “It is lovely—isn’t it? Maggie was sooo sweet to lend it to me.”
The sound of crickets chirping was loud in the sudden silence. When the crickets recognized their conspicuousness, they hushed immediately as if aware of their precarious place in the cycle of life.
“Ah,” said Jane, her eyes bright with grateful tears. “Oh. Oh! That was…that was very sweet of Margaret.”
“Oh yes,” said Piggy, with just the right touch of off-handedness. “So very thoughtful of her. I thought the color matched my eyes.”
Talking began abruptly as though a switch had been flipped back on.
Kermit went to Piggy’s side, suddenly understanding the reason she had sent him on ahead. Piggy turned and looked at him, her blue eyes huge and innocent. For a moment, Kermit wished he had been able to witness the meeting of those two minds, but his musing was cut short.
Supper was served, and the entire The Frog family sat down and tucked in with relish.
Well, almost.

Orville and Norville had followed up their helpful and child-friendly demeanor of the afternoon with great politeness and good manners to their fellow frogs. Several people watched with wonder (verging on open-mouthed astonishment) as they waited their turn in the chow line only after assisting a couple of elderly aunts and actually intervened in a pre-teen pile-up, rerouting the overeager youngsters to alleviate the clog. Croaker had commandeered Kermit’s attention and they were laughing like the old friends they were. There was a moment when Piggy felt oddly elated over being excluded, and she wondered at it for a moment before she divined the meaning of her odd mood. Suddenly, her expression turned surprised, then amused, and finally, triumphant. She understood. Kermit was no longer worried about Piggy’s ability to either fit in or take care of herself. He now felt free to enjoy the company of his old friends and leave her to mingle.
At Hollywood shindigs, Kermit had often sent Piggy out to do the hard work that she was so consistently good at—schmoozing the bigwigs and taking the pulse of both the gossip and the fashion quotient in the room. Later, they would meet up to compare notes and, depending on her mood and the status of their couplehood, she would fill him in on what she had learned. If they were in one of their on-again phases, she could usually be bribed with dinner or—if she had some particularly juicy tidbit to share—dinner and a show. If there were in one of their off-again phases, or if one of the many young wolves of Hollywood had attempted to barter for a chance to howl at her door, Piggy usually passed on her tidbits with dispatch and left with an airy “I’m off the clock now, frog.”
While Piggy slithered artfully around the room, Kermit was no slouch. He was, in fact, his usual affable and accessible self. People liked him—people flocked to him in a friendly fashion to say hello and ask about what the company was up to. Though this was not the usual Hollywood style—too honest and too un-slick for the usual Tinseltown mores—Kermit’s contributions to the cause were as essential as Piggy’s. If Kermit said Rainbow Productions was looking for backers, people either expressed interest and showed up with their checkbooks, or kept tabs on the project for future reference. Kermit’s reputation for straight dealing dealt him out of the usual politics and mostly allowed him to run his company in a more straightforward fashion than most.
Although sometimes a tad too trusting, Kermit could afford to be a little naive. He had little fear of their ideas being scooped or stolen. For reasons not yet entirely clear to the ambitious amphibian, his little band of entertainers never quite seemed to being doing what everybody else in town was doing—either professionally or personally. This likely contributed to the general attitude of unthreatened and friendly goodwill that greeted him wherever movers and shakers congregated.
This had that feel about it to Piggy—the feeling of being trusted to do her part and to leave the rest to Kermit. It was a happy feeling, a feeling of being both wanted and needed, but while she was becoming acclimated to swamp life in her own inestimable way, it nevertheless instilled in her a bit of genuine homesickness. Shopping with Sherwood had been a treat—the man had a wonderful eye for color and a complete inability to lie—but Piggy missed Saks and Tiffany’s and Rodeo Drive. She missed limos and taxis and mints on her pillows, steamy bubble baths and television. Still, looking around her at the sea of welcoming faces, Piggy found those things fading a little in comparison.
She wondered what it would be like to live here—truly live here in the swamp surrounded by more family than she had ever imagined. Everyone had tried so hard to make her feel welcome—well, almost everyone—and Piggy felt a surge of affection. After all, stores were crowded, and even five-star hotels sometimes tried to give you the second-string towels. And the neon lights were just artificial illumination. This place had spawned Kermit—her Kermit—and had shaped the frog he would become. How awful could it be? In fact, it might be--
God may well protect fools and children, but Fate is a prankster at heart At just that moment, Piggy’s artfully shod foot sank into the soft earth and she stood there for a moment contemplating the wet, squishy earth between her toes.
On the other hand, Broadway was lovely this time of year. And, while it had been wonderful to have Kermit much more to herself after they had wrapped their third movie and stopped production of The Muppet Show, Piggy was already beginning to find herself restless from a professional point of view. She…she didn’t know what the months and even years ahead would hold—only that they would include Kermit. That still hadn’t quite sunk in.
Her foot, on the other, um, hand, had. Piggy braced herself and heaved her footwear out of the muck. Smiling ruefully, Piggy carried tea to her father-in-law, who was deep in conversation with one of the elderly aunts. Sufficient unto the day….

Maggie had not hung out with Orville and Norville for naught. She balanced on the tall tree branch and surveyed the moonlit swamp. The sounds of laughter and eating had been replaced with the more subdued murmur of conversation, and she could hear the bright plink of instruments being tuned. Maggie felt a great swell of pride and possessiveness sweep over her, rooting her to this swamp—her swamp. The image of Yertle the Turtle swam up to the surface of her brain from the depths of childhood, and she smiled. She had been acting a bit like a petty dictator, but Mit had understood after all. Why on earth she had thought that him getting married would change them she could not imagine.
She dropped another stone into the water, liking the deep “plop” of sound it made. She couldn’t see the ripples, but she knew they were there, reaching out in ever-widening circles toward infinity—just like Kermit’s dream.
He…he had made a lot of people happy, and Margaret the Frog realized in a rush of emotion that she had been one of them. Because Kermit had chased his dream out of the swamp, Maggie had first known and understood that she could dare to grasp hold of her dearest dream and let it take her where it would. Was that why she had hesitated? And resented? Because Kermit’s success was a reminder of all the unfulfilled potential inside of her? On some level, Maggie now knew it to be true, but she also knew that she could not go back to pretending that she didn’t have any responsibility—to herself and to the world—to follow her own dream as well.
She looked toward the glow of the bonfire, and smiled in spite of herself. That scheming little pig had probably done everything but run her scarf up the flagpole by now. Smart cookie, that. It was entirely possible that she might pick up a few pointers if she kept her eyes and her aural organs open. The sounds from the clearing were drawing her, drawing her in, drawing her home. She squared her slim shoulders, took a deep breath, and hopped down.
It was time to pay the piper. If she was lucky, she might even get to dance to the piper’s tune.

Kermit had lost his seat the instant he’d gotten up, and came back to find his place of honor at Piggy’s side supplanted by half a dozen small frogs.
“Hey,” he objected mildly. “Move over and make room for your Uncle Kermit.”
Scores of eyes stared at him, then slipped slyly to the side.
“You move,” someone whispered.
“No, you move—I was here first!”
“Were not!”
“Were so!”
“Make Mikey move—he’s a tadpole, anyway.”
“I am NOT a tadpole,” someone—presumably Mikey—objected. There were sounds of scuffling.
Kermit put his hands on his hips. “If somebody doesn’t get up—“ he began in a warning tone.
Laughing, Piggy stood up and reached for his hand. So tightly pressed were the small frogs around her that her spot on the log, too, immediately disappeared in a tumble of little frog bodies. Piggy took Kermit’s hand firmly and began to lead him away from the circle of firelight.
“Hey!”
“What happened?”
“Where are you going?” several little frogs wailed.
Piggy regarded her cheering section fondly. “I’m going for a walk with your Uncle Kermit,” she said.
“Can we come?” wailed Doralee, but without much hope. Cee Cee shot her a look and rolled her eyes. Doralee could be sooo dense.
“Certainly not,” Piggy said fondly. She surveyed the troops like a five-star general. “Cee Cee—you make sure everyone shares the marshmallows. Dakota and Jacob can keep the little ones back from the fire.” She tried to look stern. “No bickering,” she insisted, then took Kermit’s hand and led him away.
It was a beautiful night. The moon was almost full, with the barest crescent missing, and the light of it filled the swamp with an other-worldly glow. When they were safely out of range of both small and large eyes and ears, Piggy stopped, lifted her arms to Kermit’s neck and kissed him like she’d been waiting to do it all day, which she probably had. Taken by storm but not surprise, Kermit withstood this assault on his senses bravely, answering her kiss with enough ardor to convince her he’d been hoping for just this when he’d followed her out into the sweet swamp grasses.
With a shaky laugh, Piggy stepped back, then let Kermit take her hand and tuck it under his arm. They strolled around the quiet clearing, their skin moon-dappled by the pale glowing light. Kermit inhaled the rich earthy smell of the swamp, caught the faint elusive scent of Piggy’s shampoo beneath the stronger smells of sunscreen and bug spray. He sighed, deeply content on almost every level, and heard Piggy’s answering sigh mirror his.
“Beautiful night,” Kermit said.
“Lovely,” Piggy said.
There was a little pool of moonlight, and Kermit gestured to it grandly. “Your spotlight,” he said, with a flourish of his hand, and handed Piggy into it before joining her there. Piggy seemed suddenly shy as Kermit stepped forward and put his arms around his wife.
“Happy?” he asked, not really needing her answer to know the truth.
“Yes,” she said fervently. “So happy.”
Kermit smiled, enjoying her wonder and the way she was looking at him in the moonlight. Piggy’s new look had given him a lot more to look at today, and he appreciated the soft fullness of her in his arms.
“Me too,” he said, and his voice sounded husky. It was no trouble at all to lean forward and kiss her, and he felt her happy sigh of contentment as her lips worked with his. “Mmmmm,” he murmured.
“Mmmmm,”Piggy agreed. She heard the soft night sounds of the swamp, and though it was as soft and soothing as a lullaby, sleep was far from both of their minds.
“Think anyone would miss us if we didn’t come back?” Kermit asked. He knew the answer but hoped Piggy would join him in his delusion.
Piggy laughed, then gently disentangled herself.
“Are you kidding?” she asked. “The last thing we need is a frog scout patrol scouring the swamp for us.” She gentled her response with another kiss or two, and though Kermit turned reproachful pollywog eyes on her, she managed to withstand same. “Besides,” Piggy said reasonably, “If we don’t go back soon, there won’t be any marshmallows left.”
Kermit muttered something unkind about marshmallows, but ruefully, and let Piggy lead him around the clearing until they rejoined the others. A quick glance told them Cee Cee seemed to have her charges well in hand, and they slipped into the back row of logs on the opposite side of the clearing and sat. Soon, music would start, and Kermit would play, filling the clearing and the swamp and Piggy’s heart full to bursting with songfulness and joy. She had not believed it possible that she could love Kermit more than she had the day he proposed, but she found that she did so now. Maybe Kermit could read her thoughts, for he turned to her and smiled.
“Glad you married me, Mrs. The Frog?”
Piggy’s eyes were shining, luminous in the moonlight. “Yes,” she said. “So very, very glad.”
“Me, too.” Kermit the still-newlywed frog leaned forward, but he was spotted before their lips could meet.
“Kermit! Cousin Kermit! Get up here!”
“We need another banjo!”
“Stop spooning and play already!”
Kermit smiled at Piggy, sighed, and reached for her hand. She took it and followed him to log nearer the fire—and the other musicians.
“Any requests?” he asked her, shouldering his banjo.
Piggy’s voice was low, pitched for his aural organs only. “Plenty of time for that later,” she teased, and Kermit felt his heart go pitter-pat. Yes—plenty of time for that, he thought happily. A lifetime of time for that. He settled himself more comfortably on the log next to Piggy and began to play an old Appalachian folk tune.
“She’s gone away for to stay a little while,” he sang softly. “But she’s coming back if she goes ten thousand miles. Oh who will tie her shoes, and who will brush her hair, and who will kiss her ruby lips when she is gone. Look away, look away, over yonder.” He pronounced the last word “yandro,” the way the original author of the song may have done. Piggy looked at him, her eyes shining, and watched his fingers moving over the strings.
“I’m goin’ away for to stay a little while,” she picked up the verse. “But I’m coming back, if I go ten thousand miles. Oh who will tie my shoes? And who will brush my hair? And who will kiss my ruby lips when I am gone? Look away, look away—over yonder.”
Kermit leaned forward without missing a beat on the banjo and answered at least one of the questions. When they broke apart, they were smiling at each other in the moonlight. Piggy scooted over beside him and rested her shining head on his shoulder as he played. Kermit changed songs, shifting to another old Appalachian song. “I wonder as I wander out under the sky,” Kermit began, his voice light and clear. His cousin Kendra joined him on the next line, her contralto voice blending beautifully with his. His brother Leonard came in the chorus, his rich bass adding weight and balance. On it went, voices coming and going, blending and fading, while Kermit’s fingers danced lightly over the instrument. Requests were made, and Kermit played on. Some songs were solemn, some of them silly or telling a tale.
It was a coincidence—almost an accident, really—that he saw her. Kermit had just finished Barbry Allen, a mournful tune about lost love, and was tuning up a string that had gotten slack. Listening with his head cocked to the side, a subtle movement near the edge of the clearing caught his eye. He looked up, and his eyes met those of his sister Maggie. Surprise made him silent, which was fortunate, because a public acknowledgement of her presence might have sent her scurrying away, but since he did not speak, they looked in silence at each other for a long moment. Maggie’s eyes were unreadable, Kermit’s sad. Come in, he pleaded silently. Be a part of this with us. For a moment, Maggie looked away—Kermit held his breath—but then she shrugged, the merest lift of the shoulders. Kermit was never going to be an expert on women, but he had been married long enough to know that that little shrug meant. His face broke into a wide smile as Maggie squared her shoulders and marched boldly into the crowd. There was a little murmur of excitement as the crowd shifted nervously.
“Sheesh,” she said, thrusting her chin at the banjo. “Can’t you play anything lively on that thing?”
“I can play anything you can sing,” Kermit challenged. Maggie’s eyes narrowed and she put her hands on her lean hips.
“Oh, realllly,” she said. “You’re on.”
The tension in the crowd evaporated. Leaning against Kermit, one arm tight around his middle, Piggy felt him relax, felt him let the tension roll right off his slender frame. He turned to her and grinned.
“I know that look,” Piggy murmured, wondering if Maggie was up for the laughing challenge in Kermit’s eyes.
Kermit shot her a look, equal parts delighted and annoyed to be so well known.
“Maggie knows it, too,” he told her wryly. Piggy stifled a smile, amused by the way the old sibling rivalry brought out the devilry in her spouse. She patted him fondly on the back, and waited to see what would happen next. With Kermit, you never quite knew.

C'est magnifique!

Such tender moments between Kermit and the Mrs. ....awww..just lovely. Wonderful...um..more please?

The ribbon, the ripples, Yertle the Turtle, Kermit starting to let go, and the old sibling rivalry - oh! it's all so, so great... just thought I'd come back and say that.

Chapter 25: Author of Mischief

Lovingly dedicated to Toga in particular, and to all the other mischief-makers here at MC. May our tales never fall off, and may our mischief never cease!

Ru/Catherine


The water was quiet and still. Still waters run deep, don’t they? At least, that’s what people write in your yearbook when you’re quiet and they don’t know what to make of you.
Nobody had written that in Kermit’s yearbook. Ever.
Still, he had learned to imitate calm, and he lounged beside the swimming hole with every outward appearance of calm, and none of its substance.
Piggy looked up from arranging her bathing suit straps to avoid a tan line and her smile was indulgent.
“We could get the tickets moved up a couple of days,” she said matter-of-factly.
Kermit started guiltily. “Um, do you want to? Do that?” he asked.
Piggy exchanged looks with Maggie, who was lying on her stomach on a towel nearby, twirling a pen idly through her fingers. Seeing it, Kermit crossed his arms across his chest, which caused both of them to look hastily away and bite their lips. Sheesh!
“No,” said Maggie after a moment. “But you do.”
Kermit started to deny it, but abandoned the attempt. He gave a rueful sigh and the familiar lop-sided smile made its appearance. Both women smiled back at him—one lean and dark, the other blond and lush. He started to speak, but at that moment, Robin climbed dripping out of the pond and draped himself coolly over his uncle’s back. Laughing, Kermit put one arm up and pulled him easily over his shoulder and onto the mossy ground. Cool-ish water splashed both of the ladies, but the only reaction was Maggie’s protective covering of her notebook.
“Coming in again, Uncle Kermit?” asked Robin.
Kermit shook his head. “I am nice and wet—“
Robin giggled.
“—but no—I think I’m done swimming for the day,” he said. “But don’t let me stop you.”
Robin righted himself, shrugged, and plunged back into the water, his gleaming, slippery body almost soundless upon entry. Kermit looked back up and faced the music, so to speak.
“I was thinking it,” he admitted. “Rowlf says there’s talk of something new, and Scooter sounded a little frantic when I spoke to him Monday.”
“The red-headed guy?” asked Maggie. Piggy nodded automatically. “Oh pooh,” said Maggie. “He always sounds like that.”
Kermit couldn’t argue, but he knew Maggie wasn’t really arguing with him. He had seen the look that passed between his sister and his wife—the most recent in a long series of knowing looks recently shared. They might kid him, but that had not misread him.
He was restless. He had come home to bring his bride and rest; those things had long been neatly checked off on his to-do list. Now, he was hankering for the life he’d come on vacation to escape, and it was more than obvious to those who knew him best. He was ready to go back home, and it showed. Still, he hesitated, watching the little tadpoles and frogs frolic in the water. While he watched, he felt Piggy’s hand slip into his, and he turned to her and smiled.
“I think I will walk to town and check at the train station,” he said. Piggy nodded and raised her plump cheek to accept his offered parting kiss.
“Do that,” she said. “We’ll see you at supper.”
After he had gone, Maggie scritch-scratched her pen across the paper for a while, covering pages with small, untidy script with occasional stops to gum her writing implement thoughtfully. Piggy lounged and flipped pages idly in her romance novel. She’d read it before, but it was a loaner from Jane and that made it worth perusing again.
“How do you read that stuff?” Maggie asked, laughing, when Piggy’s eyes widened at some highly unlikely bit of acrobatics. Piggy sighed and closed the book over a long blade of swamp grass.
“Mind candy,” she excused herself. She fluffed her hair. “And how’s the great American swamp novel coming?” she tweaked back. Maggie rolled over on her back, her head pillowed by the notebook.
“Better than expected,” she admitted, “but far from coherent.”
“The better to sell the movie rights,” Piggy quipped, then looked thoughtful. “Kermit said you wrote, but I never knew what.”
Maggie looked uncomfortable, but determined. “Poetry,” she said. “Short stories. Some long stories.” She smiled self-consciously. “Mother used to say I was an author of mischief, so one day I thought I’d see if I could be an author of another sort.”
Piggy did not press it. Art was a personal thing, and craft a hard one and she tried to let Maggie set the tone and pace for what she would say.
“Do you like to write?” she asked after a moment when nothing else was forthcoming.
Maggie hesitated. “I…I guess so. When I’m upset, sometimes I need to write.” She did not say that her recent unhappiness had been all the more bitter because she had not been able to write about it. Her behavior had been so repugnant, even to herself, that she had not been willing to set it down on paper.
Piggy nodded. “I need to act, I guess. The stage was the first place I ever felt at home.” Piggy blushed, not sure if this was a safe admission. Still, she and Maggie had forged a friendship of sorts—based perhaps on respect more than affection. Maggie did not jeer, but nodded slowly.
“Everybody needs to feel at home somewhere,” she said. Her voice was soft and wistful, and Piggy felt like it was time to change the subject—or at least turn it in a different direction.
“Kermit writes things, but always with an eye toward the stage,” Piggy mused.
“Um hum.” Maggie was quiet, seeing back over the years. “He always wanted to turn everything into a play.”
“The play’s the thing…” began Piggy lightly.
“—wherein we’ll catch the conscience of the king,” Maggie finished automatically, but it was obvious her mind wasn’t on Shakespeare. “But plays are…it’s not the same,” she finally burst out. “It’s—you’re so dependent on other people that way.” She looked away, wondering, perhaps, if she had said too much, but her sister-in-law pulled up the thread of her thought deftly.
“No,” said Piggy. “If you get a good script, you hope you do justice to it, but sometimes even a bad script will do if you can make it work for you.”
“Are you saying writing isn’t important?” Maggie said, bristling in spite of her smooth skin.
“Of course not,” said Piggy. “But writing a script is a collaborative art whether you want it to be or not. The best script in the world can’t necessarily survive terrible acting, and the worst script might work if the chemistry is right.” She turned her blue eyes shrewdly on Maggie. “That’s why you’d rather write stories and poems, isn’t it? Because you don’t have to depend on other to tell your tale.”
Hesitantly, Maggie nodded. More proof that the pig was wasn’t as superficial as she’d assumed. “Maybe,” she hedged. She sat up suddenly, plucking at grass. “I…when you count on people you get disappointed.”
“Sometimes,” Piggy admitted carefully.
“Mostly,” Maggie muttered. She started to speak, then shook her head.
“Go on,” said Piggy. “I haven’t had a good argument in days.”
It broke the tension nicely. Maggie laughed in outrage and indignation, and Piggy preened a little, happy with her handiwork.
“Okay,” said Maggie, squaring her shoulders for mock battle. “Say you…say somebody writes the great American swamp novel. What then?”
“Well, that’s up to you. What do you want to do with it?”
Maggie gave an adolescent shrug. “I’m not sure what you mean,” said Maggie, and her cheeks looked a little flushed at having to ask, but Piggy was brisk and businesslike.
“Well, if you write it because you want to—because you need to, maybe—then that’s enough, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Maggie immediately, then hesitated. “No. Wait—I don’t know….”
“But some people want to share what they write,” Piggy continued, politely ignoring Maggie’s confused outburst. “You told me Kermit always like to write songs, but it wasn’t enough, was it, to just sing them for himself?”
“No,” said Maggie with some bitterness. “He had to go off and share them with the world.”
“Not so easy, I guess. And no guarantee that the world would want them.”
“Of course they wanted them!” Margaret The Frog flashed. “How could they not?”
“That’s what I say,” said Piggy, and her companion subsided sheepishly. “But when you share things with the world, sometimes the world wants to change them. Sometimes the world wants to change you.”
Margaret nodded unhappily. “Kermit said that,” she said. “I mean, not that specifically, but when he was starting out…well, you know how much Kermit loves children, and children’s television.”
“Yes,” said Piggy, and tried not to think of the possibility of many, many, many bouncing baby figs. They were, after all, talking about children in general, not children in specific.
“But after he did that, some people didn’t think he could do other things.”
“Yes,” said Piggy. “But there were people who believed in him.”
“Like Jim,” said Maggie suddenly. She had not always been a big fan of the people and projects that took Kermit away from home, but she had always known and appreciated the special role Jim had played in Kermit’s success.
“Yes,” said Piggy, and smiled suddenly. “And you, and Jane and James.” t Margaret allowed a laugh. “Okay,” she said. “Yes—we knew he could do anything, the little show-off!”
“So,” said Piggy, trying to gather her thoughts and steer the conversation back on track—if indeed there was a stack to get back on. “So, if y—if somebody writes a poem, or a story or even a book, then that person has to decide if they want to share it with the world, or just enjoy the creation themselves.”
Margaret took a deep breath. “Say the person wants to share it, and somebody does want to buy it.”
“Then you take me shopping,” Piggy said lightly, then held up her hand against Maggie’s protests. “No, no—kidding.” She pursed her lips and looked thoughtful, trying to think what to say. “If someone does, then you have to decide if you are willing to sell it on the terms they’re willing to buy it on. Do you know what I mean?”
Maggie nodded grimly. She knew about compromise, even if she didn’t like it.
“And if you can work out terms, then they help you share your vision with the world.” She paused, smiling a little. “Contract negotiations,” she mused fondly. “That’s why I have Marty. They say they wrote the part for you. You say you’d like to do it, but you can’t go to Italy for four whole months. They say they’ll work around your schedule but you have to dye your hair. You say you’ll wear a wig and they’ll have to get you…well.” Margaret was looking at her with an amused and slightly sardonic expression, and Piggy guessed (rightly enough) that she pitied Kermit trying to negotiate with Marty. Piggy coughed delicately, then looked pointedly at Maggie’s little notebook. “Are you ready to share any of that with the world?” she asked. Margaret hesitated, and Piggy slid her hand a couple of inches toward her sister-in-law. She somehow doubted that she and Maggie would ever find themselves bawling on each other’s shoulders, but it was a gesture of intimacy nonetheless. “Or maybe with just a friend?”
Maggie’s face curved into a lop-sided smile, so familiar and yet so foreign that Piggy had to blink back her surprise. “Not yet,” she said, with a strange, airy confidence. “But some day.”
“Good,” Piggy said, and might have said more, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw stealthy little frogs creeping toward her and Maggie, giggling wildly in anticipation of plastering their wet bodies all over the adults. “But I think we’d better mount an offensive—or run for it.”
Maggie laughed, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “Never retreat!” she cried.
They got up and ran for the water to the shouted joy of lot and lots (and lots) of little frogs.

WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

<GLOMP>

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<MAJOR HUGS!>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Absolutely wonderful, Ru. ABSOLUTELY. WONDERFUL.

And that's about all I can think to say right now, due in part to your lovely lovely writing, and in part to the fact that I haven't had peanut butter in a couple days. Or chocolate, come to think of it. GAH! I'M WITHERING AWAY! Thank heavens I can survive on good stories like these.

You little mind-reader, you! The next chapter is "Somewhat Blue," which is, indeed, a play on the phrase "Something Blue."

The complete rhyme is:
Something old, something new
Something borrowed, something blue
And a silver sixpence in her shoe.

And these, of course, are all good-luck wedding items, making them perfect for this semi-honeymoon story.

I'll be wrapping this one up for bed soon. Thanks for hanging in there!

Chapter 26: Somewhat Blue

“I can’t believe it’s time for you to go back,” said Jane. She bustled about, fussing unnecessarily. Jane was easily the most unflappable frog that Piggy knew, but she also knew from recent experience that when Jane fussed it was only to cover for some other emotion. How much like her Kermit is, Piggy thought with great affection. She moved impulsively and put her arms around Jane’s shoulders. Surprised, Jane stopped moving, then turned and made the hug come full circle.
“I’m so glad you came,” she whispered against Piggy’s shining curls. “I’m so glad to see Kermit so…” She stopped, not sure what to say.
“Settled down?” teased Piggy, but Jane shook her head.
“Happy,” she said firmly. “I’m so glad to see Kermit so happy.”
Piggy nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She had been so deliriously happy herself that Kermit’s testament of happiness had been like a cherry on top of the sundae.
“You’re gonna miss your train,” said James the Frog, looking at his pocketwatch and shaking his head. Young people simply did not have proper respect for time, he grumbled to himself.
James was, quite possibly, correct about their disregard of the time. The change in plans had been managed, with 38 hours shaved off the trip, but it necessitated a departure time for the railroad that was rather indecent. Kermit and Piggy had stayed not quite two weeks, which seemed to be about as much vacation as Kermit could comfortably stand, no matter how comfortable the stay. Jane and James had greeted the news blandly, but Piggy now knew them both well enough to see the secret amusement in their eyes. She assumed that they knew what she knew—and what Margaret knew—that Kermit’s restlessness had nothing to do with them, and everything to do with Kermit’s dream of making a lot of people happy. The world was a big place, and if Kermit was going to reach the entire world with his dream, well, he’d have to get cracking.
Their luggage had been hauled to the edge of the road to await the arrival of Sherwood and the faithful pickup truck, but Piggy and Kermit had lingered as long as possible in the common clearing. Restless or no, Kermit seemed reluctant to leave now that the time was upon him.
“We’ll come home again when we can, Mom,” said Kermit, embracing his mother for the third—and last—time before leaving. When their cheeks were pressed close, Jane murmured, automatically, “You be a good boy.”
Piggy had said much the same thing to Orville and Norville, who had stood—awkward and morose—and offered repeatedly to carry things or be put to use. Piggy had let them carry her trunk, and they had performed the duty with all the solemnity they possessed.
Robin burst through the swamp grass, bouncing excitedly. “He’s here!” he cried. “Mr. Sherwood is here!” He had begged and begged to be allowed to stay up late and later and finally, early, in order to see his Uncle and new Aunt off.
“He can sleep it off this afternoon,” James had said, indulgently, granting amnesty.
“Robin can come for a long visit once we get settled and figure out what comes next,” Kermit said, talking hastily as he walked toward the road and the sounds of a rattling old engine.
“He can stay as long as he wants!” Piggy said, anxious to show that it was not just Kermit doing the inviting.
“Yippee!” shouted Robin, who was immediately shushed by all of the adults. Maggie did not appear to be a morning person, and her shushing was, perhaps, a bit more stringent than some of the other adults. Robin was quieted, but not cowed, and he continued to bounce around them as they made their way toward the country road that ran past the swamp. James and Jane and Maggie and a handful of early risers followed them toward the road, with James casting anxious glances at his pocketwatch every so often.
At last, the battered truck was in sight, blowing faintly blue smoke in the early morning light from its exhaust. More hurried goodbyes, then Sherwood had the door standing open.
Because of the stick shift, Kermit got in first, and—just before mounting the running board, Piggy turned and looked back the way they had come. She saw the swamp, timeless and serene, and wondered that it had ever looked strange and intimidating. She saw the paths that countless generations of frogs had made through the rustling swamp grasses—none of them in high heels. She saw the waving hands and smiling faces of Kermit’s family—of Jane and James and Margaret and Robin—and oh, there was Matthius with Puddin’ waving a pudgy hand. Not Kermit’s family, Piggy corrected herself. Our family. Her vision blurred suddenly, but she covered it well. She was, after all, a professional. And she was also Mrs. Kermit The Frog. She rose to the occasion and waved gaily.
“Good-bye, everybodee!” Piggy called. She climbed in the truck. She was not wearing a hat this time, but she waved a hanky theatrically out the window, finally letting it drift back as the truck rounded the corner and disappeared in a cloud of dust. Maggie rolled her eyes as Orville and Norville dashed after the scrap of pink linen, but she could admire the artistry in the gesture all the same. Margaret The Frog watched the road until the dust had all settled and the sound of morning had replaced the sounds of dawn, then she turned and started back toward the clearing with Orville and Norville.
“Nice of you to take Miss Piggy’s luggage,” she said. Her voice and manner were a little stiff, but the twins cottoned to the fact that she was making an overture of friendship to them.
“Um, we could help you carry things, too,” said Orville eagerly. “You know, clothes or, um….” He trailed off in confusion, but Norville came to his rescue.
“Or anything else you need carrying,” he said. Maggie noted with some amusement that his voice seemed to be deepening a little, marking him as a man, if a young one.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Maggie said, managing to remove all the sarcasm and most of the irony from her voice. “If you keep this up, you guys are going to give Sherwood a run for his money.”
They exchanged startled glances. Was she teasing them? Was Maggie tweaking them or being sincere? It was hard to know. While they were still pondering, Maggie nudged Orville with her bony little shoulder and laughed.
“Just don’t start running the roads in a pick-up,” she said. “You two are dangerous enough in the trees!” She started trotting, and picked up speed as she dashed toward the edge of the trees ahead. With a whoop, Orville darted after her, with Norville in hot pursuit. One, two, three figures swung up into the overhanging branches and disappeared from view as the swamp swallowed them utterly. You can take a frog out of the swamp, they say, but you can’t take the swamp out of a frog.

Piggy leaned her shining curls against the cool glass of the window and looked out the window. The trip down dusty lanes must be affecting her, for she wiped now and then at her eyes. Beside her, Kermit sat still, but she could feel the coiled readiness in him—as usual, he had his face toward the future and what it might hold.
Mrs. Kermit The Frog wondered if Kermit knew how much he took for granted, wondering if he knew what it was like to feel the warmth and security of knowing where you cam from, and where you belonged. Piggy looked down at the ring on her hand and smiled. She was just beginning to know.
The train was mostly empty. It would not pick up any significant number of passengers until it they got into a less rural setting. Kermit took advantage of the privacy to slip his arm around her waist. With a sigh of great contentment, Piggy leaned away from the window and into her husband’s shoulder—away from the cold and into the warmth. Kermit smiled indulgently.
“Go ahead and sleep,” he said softly. “I’ll be right here.”

The ringing of a bell tied to a cord gave warning of a customer. Jack came out of the back where he was trying to down a peanut-butter sandwich, wiping his hands carefully on a moist towelette.
“Whacha got there, Sherwood?” asked the storekeeper. Sherwood drew out a carefully wrapped brown paper package, tied with enough string to secure the Mongrel hordes.
“S’picture,” he said. “I was hoping you could help me find a frame for it.”
“Got plenty of frames,” the man said. “What kind are you looking for?”
“Somethin’ fancy,” Shewood said. “I like that one there.”
The man followed the line of his pointing finger. “The gold one? The big one with all the curlicues?”
“That’s the one, Jack,” Sherwood said firmly. “That’s just the thing.” Carefully, regretfully, he laid the wrapped package on the counter as though fearful of letting it out of his hands. “Reckon you could frame this for me afore I come back to town on Friday?”
“I could do it now, if you want to wait.”
“Really? That’d be—that’d be great.” Sherwood hesitated, then picked up the package and handed it to his friend behind the counter. Gently, Jack peeled the paper back to reveal a beautiful 8 x 10 glossy of stage and screen diva, Piggy The Frog nee Miss Piggy. His eyes grew wide.
“Pretty nice, Sherwood,” he said approvingly. “I’ll take extra special care of this.”
Scrawled across the bottom of the photo, in large loopy cursive, it read, “To Sherwood, from his biggest fan, Miss Piggy” and under that, “Kissy, kissy!”
No doubt about it—things around the swamp were never going to be quite the same.

Chapter 27: Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety-Jig

They stood on the threshold of the huge Spanish-style house and looked at each other. It was much too big for them, and still so new that it hardly felt like home, but what did feel like home to Piggy was to stand here, with Kermit’s arms around her, and look into his bulbous eyes.
Ever the opportunist, Kermit leaned in and kissed her.
“It’s good to be home,” he said softly, and his eyes said it was not the only good thing.
“Yes,” Piggy said. “Home again, home again, jiggety-jig.”
Kermit laughed at her nonsense. “What was that?”
Piggy smiled, wondering if she could explain. “When I was a little girl, I used to love Nursery Rhymes. Mother Goose, especially. There was one poem that always made me laugh—it ended with ‘Home again, home again, jiggety-jig.’”
“Sounds painful,” said Kermit dryly.
Piggy shook her head, and put her shiny new key into the lock. “I don’t remember the whole poem, but I loved that last line. When I’d been out all day with my mother, shopping—and let me tell you, if you think I can shop for a long time, well…. Once we were settled in the car and started for home, that line would always bounce around in my head. Home again, home again….” She stepped through and looked around. Their stuff was there in the house, but sparse, giving the home a not-quite-finished look. She turned to Kermit and smiled. “That’s what we’ve done today—gone from home to home. From your home—where you made me welcome, to our home.” She turned and kissed him. “Welcome home.”
“Oh, Piggy….” said Kermit softly.
He took her hands in his, and they stood there on the threshold looking around at this new kingdom of theirs. It was clean and shiny and smelled of lemon cleaner. They still smelled faintly of swamp grass and wood smoke.
“Do you think—“
“I hope that we—“
They broke off, smiling at each other on the threshold of their lives together. What would happen next? Anything! Everything. With Kermit, Piggy thought anything might be possible—and often was.

Epilogue

“I didn’t know it then—wouldn’t know it for a long time yet to come—but sometimes it takes a change in someone you love to make you see a change in yourself that needs to happen. Kermit had changed, yes—but so had I, and while he had changed for the better, my own change was just beginning. Who says that you stop growing after you lose your tail? Certainly not me—I know better. But the first summer that my brother came home a married frog marked the beginning of a journey for me that would change the course of my life forever.”
“I dedicate this book with great affection to Miss Piggy, my dear sister-in-law. I daresay we inflicted a few truly miserable days on each other in the beginning, but I hope I’ve made up my share in the years since.”
--excerpt from the dedication of “The Pig Who Wouldn’t Go, and other stories, by Margaret The Frog

Wonderful!

Oh Ru, that was simply wonderful! It was such a great way to end the story. I'll never stop being impressed by you. I thought the first update you posted was the end, but then there was another one and both of them made a perfect ending to the tale. I also say, "home again, home again, jiggety jig". My mom and I say it all the time after a long trip. Fantastic Story Ru, simply wonderful. I can't wait to see updates on Kermie's Girl. Have a great day!

<GLOMP!>

That epilogue really tops it off so perfectly, Ru. Darn near brought tears to my eyes (in a very GOOD way), and believe me, that's no easy task for the written word. I really like what you've done with my Maggie here, and the depth that you've added to her, and I do not hesitate to say that of all the writers here who have taken her out of my stories and into their own, you are definitely the truest to the character as I see her. I sincerely thank you for writing this most enjoyable tale.

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I...wow.

Ru, you understand and convey human emotional turbulence with a mastery I would expect from a PhD psych who also had an artistic soul -- should such an unlikely creature ever exist.

I have much to mull over. Thank you for writing this, and thanks more for deciding to share it with the world.
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BRAVO!!!

Awww...thanks, guys. It was fun revisiting this story with you all who are just now reading it. Although I remember the story (senility has not QUITE set in, despite my birthday) I had forgotten about some of the truly horrible things that happened to Piggy during this tale. And I had almost forgotten about Kermit becoming the frog prince who rescues his lady--and her shoe--as she runs away from the ball. And what a complete snot that Margaret can be when she isn't writing. (Not that I know anyone like that....) I'm glad you enjoyed it--it was a joy and a pleasure to write and share with my friends here at MC.

(Shameless plug: "A Pig Out of Water" and "Somebody's Getting Married" were written about the same time. Although I hope my writing has improved some, you will note that my penchant for catching my own typos has not...."