The familiar crunch of gravel gives way as my feet step along the path to my garden pond. My footsteps grow silent as I step onto the lawn and walk past the pillars that mark the entrance to the garden below. The welcoming shade greets me as I walk through the cool shadows in the allée of birch trees.
From the shadow of the trees, I step into the bright sunlight startling two mallard ducks preening by the pond, which is partially hidden from view in the shadow of the trees. The ducks noisily make a fuss in defiance of my presence and the pair lifts off with a silent beat of their wings. They grumble as they fly away, until distance makes their voices disappear.
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Seeing the frog jump reminds me of a warm summer day when I was a child hunting frogs with friends. We ran into their weathered farmhouse and begged our mamas, “Oh please mama, can we go down to the pond and catch frogs? Please?” Our mamas handed us bags to stuff the frogs in. “Bring some home for lunch,” they called out after us. We scrambled down the path that led us to a bridge. After crossing a small creek, we skipped past their large red barn, and slowed down to walk through the tall, yellowed grass, where the path ended at a pond.
The pond had the look of being manmade with banks above the rest of the landscape instead of being lower, as you would expect from a natural pond. A large weeping willow tree stood guard on one end, while saplings and wild grass grew along the banks. Approaching the water, we squealed in delight when we startled frogs and they leaped towards the edge of the pond. Moving quickly, we chased the frogs in a race to the water’s edge, trying to catch them before they made it to the safety of the murky water. Moving around the perimeter of the pond, we used our cunning to fool the frogs into a false sense of safety. Some frogs tricked us into thinking we fooled them, leaping into the water just before capture. A small splash was all we heard as they quickly disappeared. Many frogs escaped, yet we caught plenty and shoved them into our bags. When we grew tired of catching frogs, we played at the pond’s edge until we heard our mamas calling for us from the distant farmhouse. Realizing how hungry we were, we grabbed our bags and hurried back.
Waiting for us, our mamas made ready the black iron skillet. I do not want to know their procedure—how the live frogs in the bags, became legs sizzling in a frying pan. Somewhere I heard that frog legs jump around when placed in a hot skillet. To this day, I’m not sure if that, indeed, is what frog legs do. We sat around the kitchen table playing while our mamas prepared lunch. As we ate the small legs, we commented, It tastes like chicken.
When I near my own small pond, the frogs leap for the safety of the silted water, just as they did during my childhood hunting expedition. Their final desperate leap to avoid capture is not necessary, as eating frog legs is not an experience I want to renew. I built the pond for wildlife. My pleasure is sitting near the water, listening to the sound of frogs calling out, in search of potential mates. My bliss is watching their legacy, tadpoles, bobbing up to the top of the water taking their first breathes of oxygen then disappearing when they swim down into the murky water. Blue-eyed Darners dart above the water catching a mosquito lunch, while the tadpole, transforms in the safety of a garden refuge.
The pond is where I watch the birds come to bathe and the ducks come to paddle around eating the duckweed and small creatures that inhabit the water. While observing the wildlife I try not to disturb them, and they trick me into believing I am invisible to them. One movement on my part and they leap, run or fly to safety, reminding me just how aware they are as I walk down the garden path to greet them.
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