Frog Memories

I was born in El Paso Texas, and with the exception of a short move to Fort Worth, I lived in El Paso until the end of the second grade.

We lived in a house with a park right across the street. This park was the site of endless adventures for my brother and me. There were many times we’d be in the park, lost in play for hours. I have fond memories of my time spent in that park.

Now I don’t know how much you know about El Paso, but it’s hot and it doesn’t rain very much. I was pretty young, but I seem to remember something about the rain clouds not being able to make it over the mountains. Something like that, I think. However, the times it did rain were usually a downpour.

Rain only enhanced the fascination that this park had for my brother and me. On one end of the park there was a low area that became a pretty good-sized pond. In our imaginations, this pond became an ocean with endless possibilities for exploration.

I don’t remember what magical adventure we were in the middle of, or even exactly how we first discovered the frogs, but once we found them, they were all we could think about.

Seems El Paso was the host/breeding ground for some breed of tiny frog. These little frogs ranged anywhere from a dime to a quarter in size, and this park was a haven for millions of these tiny creatures. They would escape the west Texas heat by burrowing underground and somehow survive in the moisture that was captured deep underground after the city watered.

Anytime it rained the pond appeared in the park, and so did the frogs. You couldn’t take a step in any direction without crunching down on some poor unsuspecting little critter. My brother and I, intent on saving these amphibians from a life of “foot-traffic genocide”, decided to catch as many of them as we could and relocate them to our mother’s flower garden in the backyard. (A plan we failed to discuss with our Mom, but I’ll talk more about that later)

Using a small bucket, we headed to the park and spent the whole afternoon catching dozens of little frogs. Then we’d go back home, dump them into the flowerbed and head back to the pond for more.

I don’t know how many of these humanitarian trips we made back and forth between the pond and the garden, but there were several. You see, we weren’t just splashing around and playing in the water like all the other kids. Oh no, we were on a mission, a rescue mission and in our minds it was for real.

Now this was over 30 years ago, so thinking back, our bucket probably wasn’t really all that big, although it seemed huge at the time. I’m guessing it wouldn’t have held more than 150 to 200 little frogs. Seeing as we probably made five or six of these frog rescue trips back to the house, there were actually only somewhere between 750 to 1,200 little refugees in our garden/frog relocation camp. We went to bed, secure in the knowledge that our amphibitarian relief efforts had been a huge success.

Then things started to go wrong…

As it turns out, there were many aspects of our frog relocation project that we hadn’t actually thought about.

First: The size and capacity of our camp. While Mom’s garden seemed quite large to a first grader, it was in fact quite small. Combine that with the fact that we have five to six times the number of these small frogs in our garden as we actually have room for, and you have a disaster waiting to happen.

Turns out, as is so often the case in many refugee camps, overcrowding was a major problem. During the daytime and the sweltering heat, we didn’t see many of our new neighbors. However, at night in the desert things tend to cool off. This is when our new little friends would venture out in search of food, and possibly less crowded living conditions. Whatever the reason, during the night and early morning these little guys would be all over the yard and the porch.

It wasn’t long before Mom, walking outside in bare feet, discovered our new neighbors. I don’t remember much more than the loud, ear piercing shrieks as she hopped from foot to foot, squishing dozens of our little refugees. It’s been a long time, but I remember it being quite funny for the whole family. Well, I guess not for Mom.

Next, we also failed to think about, or possibly ignored the presence of the backyard’s primary resident, Tip. Tip, our dog, was all too happy to share his yard with these little guys. Turns out they made great playmates, toys and sometimes snacks for our fun-loving puppy. On more than one occasion, I ventured outside just in time to catch Tip, tail wagging, in mid-crunch as he happily played with a new little friend.

All the trials and tribulation associated with opening your own low-rent, frog apartments aside, having a backyard full of frogs turned out to be quite fun.

However, our fascination with our new little friends soon faded and we were forced to search for new forms of entertainment with our frog friends.

Possibly our best idea, or at least the one that has stuck in my head, began with us flooding the garden, digging up as many of these unsuspecting frogs as we could, and loading them into my Dad’s water filled wheelbarrow.

Our house had a flat roof that, as well as I can remember, was covered with small stones. We’d toss a few of the now terrified frogs up on the roof and make bets on which ones would jump off first, then laugh as we tried to catch them in the wheelbarrow full of water. We’d spend the day throwing frogs and racing back and forth with the wheelbarrow. All the while having the time of our lives.

I’m not sure how many frogs we lost all together, but the body count had to be high. I don’t think it ever occurred to us that, assuming the frog survived the throw up onto a hot rock covered roof, that they might have a concussion, or be so stunned that they would either jump the wrong direction or simply sit there and cook. All the same, we threw LOTS of the poor little guys up on the roof.

If they did happen to survive the throw, and jump the right directions, and actually land in the wheelbarrow filled with water…we would cheer and throw them right back up on the roof. A fact that I’m quite sure seemed like loads of fun to us, but had to be very disheartening for the poor frogs.

I don’t remember how many different rainy days we took our bucket and went across the street to “save” these little frogs, but seeing as it didn’t rain all that often in El Paso, I don’t believe our mission ever lost its charm. There’s also no way of knowing how many frogs were dug out of their home, tossed up on a hot roof and never heard from again, but there were many.

As fondly as I remember these events, I can’t help but wonder. What were these poor frogs thinking? I mean, here you are, happy in your world when suddenly you’re ripped from the only existence you’ve ever know, transplanted to a strange place and then viciously mistreated…all in the name of charity.

I wonder…did these little frogs ever really need, or want to be helped?




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