October 6, 2008


  • Froggy
    Day

     

    When I was a lad, knee high to a grasshopper, I was
    learning German and French, and during one summer had an exchange student from
    both countries over at the same time. The French student was nicknamed Frog, of
    course, which amused the German, and pissed off Frog.

     

    Pops was singing something about a foggy day in London
    town, which the German started laughing at, almost uncontrollably.

     

    “A froggy day in London Town,” he gleefully repeated.
    Classic.

     

    My mother loves frogs – absolutely adores them. I
    reckon pops just about gets a podium finish, behind cats and frogs.  Bring me and my sister in to the equation,
    and he just about finishes in the points. Still, my mother has the same sort of
    podium finish, behind football and golf.

     

    So with the decline in amphibian species around Europe
    (http://news.bbc.co.uk/today/hi/today/newsid_7637000/7637100.stm
    and http://www.bbc.co.uk/pressoffice/bbcworldwide/worldwidestories/pressreleases/2002/01_january/bbcwildlife_frogs.shtml)
    it was wonderful for me to hear the first frogs of the season, shortly before
    the olds arrived in April. And they were still there in May and June, when the
    tadpoles were swimming in the pond downstairs in my apartment complex.

     

    And they of course turned in to baby frogs, who would
    sit on the lily pads, soaking in the warm summer sunshine. Every time Linn and
    I would walk in to the courtyard, I would have to go and look, trying to see
    some baby frogs, getting excited every time I saw one. For me, they are
    extremely special. Linn, however, would hardly veil her impatience after a few
    times, getting very bored with me checking for frogs every time.

     

    I would see babies, and I would also see the adult
    frogs – sometimes coming out after an afternoon shower, or hiding in a corner,
    out of the way where they thought that we humans would not see them.  And their croaking… there is something so
    special about listening to an evening of frogs croaking .

     

    One evening I was coming home, the darkness setting in
    after a heavy afternoon shower, and all the baby frogs were gone. I was shocked
    – where could they all have disappeared to? They were all heading for the river
    – a mass amphibian exodus!

     

    A couple of days later though I saw that ther e were
    still some tadpoles in the water, about to grow their legs and become frogs. Shortly
    after that, those baby frogs too sat on their lily pads, waiting for the right
    time to make their way to the river. By the end of August they had all made
    their way across the car parking area, in to the field and off to the river,
    less than 100 metres away. I wondered if I would see any of them again.

     

    At the end of one of the recent typhoons, I saw a
    frog, not yet adult but a lot bigger than the ones who had recently left the
    safety of the pond, returning to the area, trying to get back up to the pond in
    the courtyard. I have no idea how many of those babies have survived – no doubt
    I never will know. But I am sure that there will be a lot of frogs next spring,
    all competing with each other for valuable mating space in the pond downstairs.
    Poor Linn will have to live once more with my child-like excitement. And the tardiness
    of getting to our desired destinations.