NOT WHAT YOU’D EXPECT IN NEW ENGLAND

As the title of my poetry collection about gardening goes, There Is No Statuary in Our Garden Except for the Plastic Spacemen Occasionally Surfacing, working the soil here turns up many surprises. Bits of broken glass and metal, definitely, and endless rocks.

A few weeks ago I came across a wiggly something I first thought might have been a petrified snake or, a bit later, a skink. As I extracted its clay-encrusted fullness and pulled bits away, I slowly realized what I had was a three-inch-long tail to a plastic ‘gator or croc’, the body and snout adding about two more inches.

Forget trying to take a photo. Even cleaned up, it’s hard to make out.

I’m sure this was never one of our kids’ toys, which leaves a question of just how long since there were other children living on the property and then just what use they made of this stretch of the side of the house we call the Swamp.

Maybe they knew something after all.

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