Frog Parking Only -- All Others Will Be Toad

Steinbeck’s book, Cannery Row, contained an endearing story line about Mack and his buddies who chug on over to the Carmel Valley river to collect a passel of frogs for one of Doc’s experiments. Great merriment ensued when they found a pond filled with frogs and, in their own inimitable way, proceeded to collect them. The sequence was hilarious and I oftentimes recommended the book to friends on their way to the area for its historic value in addition to its entertainment. I first read the story in high school, read it again, with much more appreciation, when preparing for my first visit to Monterey and the Carmel Valley, and wondered about the frogs while dining at the local  restaurants; it was so well written and so funny, but what I always assumed was poetic license on Steinbeck’s part, turned out to be true. Had I known how true, I would have invited someone of Mack’s ilk to our pond.

Green frogs were, and still are, everywhere this summer. Everywhere. Initially, I didn’t understand how there came to be such a profusion of frogs but, apparently their proliferation had to do with all the rain last spring. Green frogs breed from April to August in fresh water. Did I say breed? I meant wild Bacchanalian toga parties. We had plenty of rain so there’s a lot of fresh water. If we had paid attention in science class we would have learned that males call their “ribbit” as a single note, but each evening (frogs 'party' at night), there is a panoply of noise coming from the pond, so I can only believe that a regular sexual rampage is taking place out there. Technically, the female releases her eggs while the male simultaneously releases sperm which swim to the egg mass. Fertilization takes place in the water. It’s the underwater version of the birds and the bees. A single egg clutch may consist of 1000 to 7000 eggs. It appears that frogs are the rabbits of the water world. They swim and grow, from tadpole to frog, from swim to hop. And hop they do, onto the banks of the pond. They look so much like the surrounding greenery that they are virtually impossible to detect until I step near one, or on one. First it croaks and jumps, then I croak and jump, trip and generally scare the crap out of myself. They aren’t pretty, which adds to the excitement, and no, I will never kiss one to see what happens. I have my Prince Scott, thank you.

That said, they generally keep to themselves anyway. They usually do not wander far from home so while I would expect to have a frog sighting near the pond, ordinarily I did not see them elsewhere, until this year. This year, they have not kept to themselves but have chosen to broaden their horizons to a greater extent than we mortals can handle. I was at the local greenhouse nursery looking at a bushy plant that I might possibly purchase when a frog hopped out of the pot. Both the proprietor and I jumped and, sadly, the pot was lost. Another afternoon, as I walked down the drive to collect the mail, I noticed a couple of little frogs hopping by the side of the road. While I waited for the car to pass before crossing the road, the frogs did not. Crossed frog legs now mark the spot. On another occasion, I jumped in the pool and found myself sharing it with three more frogs, which caused me to levitate out of the pool.  They have their own pond, why are they jumping into my pool. Is there a death wish? Suicide by chlorine? Adult green frogs are highly aquatic; they stay in their pond, but juveniles will sometimes travel overland, especially in the predawn hours, when the soil and grass are covered with dew, they merrily hop about the endless wet lawn. After a short while (frogs can jump high, but their endurance is low), they tire, then, hungry and distracted, they become disoriented. By now the sun is shimmering on the pool, so in they jump. And later out I jump.

Green frogs, however maligned, do have value. They will attempt to eat any mouth-sized animal they can capture, including insects, bugs, fireflies, spiders, minnow fish, crayfish, shrimp, other frogs, tadpoles, small snakes, birds, snails and my toes. Thankfully August is about to come to an end. Frog legs anyone?

St. Michaels, the town that fooled the British

St. Michaels has long been known as “the town that fooled the British”, or so they say. Quite often, it’s the locals who add, “or so they say”.  The moniker comes from the legend of how the locals learned the British were coming (the war of 1812 had begun and it was now 1813) and so the good townspeople darkened their homes and hung lanterns in the trees. The British, fooled by the light of the lanterns, overshot the town on which they fired and the town was saved, “or so they say”. There are a number of  holes in the story, not to mention the possibility of fires in the trees; the terrain hereabouts is flat, the newspapers of the time had no reports about the lanterns but did report on the heavy fog. Nonetheless,  it's a cute story and it gives St. Michaels some cache in folklore history. We all like a good fish tale.

Time passed and, like the fish that grew at each telling, we're now brought to the Bicentennial of the Battle of St. Michaels and the Legend of the Lanterns festival ('legend' being the operative word). Small towns make their own fun. There are no giant rock concert halls, no shopping malls, no movie amphitheaters; we have only each other’s company to amuse and entertain, and we do a good job of it. During the festival, the main street shops were festooned with red, white and blue colored banners and a host of welcome flags. A few of the restaurants featured 1812 fare along with their regular menu.

The day began with a respectable parade and a few hopeful rays of sunshine. Men and women dressed in period costumes (think Jane Austen in cotton dresses and silk lined bonnets), with the Fort McHenry Guard Fife and Drums, the 1812 Eastern Shore Militia, the 2nd Battalion, the 5th Volunteer Infantry and the 1812 Royal Marines, all marched down the main street in their dress parade uniforms, along with the mayor, the chief of police (a nice guy, by the way), the owner of the local real estate shop, and a few other organizations, such as the Veteran Volunteers and the local fire department. The streets were filled with cheering onlookers all waving little flags and children quizzing "isn't that Uncle Joe?".

After the parade, there were a few book signings at the book shop by local authors, art shows by locals, horse drawn carriage rides, and two skipjacks stood by in the marina to take visitors on cruises along the river. There was a small park for children’s activities, while groups in costume, The Dover English Dancers, would entertain the crowds with dances and music from the early 1800’s. An older gentleman, watching their dance, chuckled “I thought we invented line dancing; guess not”. A woman responded “like my teenage son, who thinks his generation discovered the Beatles”. The dancers and costumed militia appeared at regular intervals throughout the day in various parks dancing their minuets and trooping their colors, all the while weaving their magic on face-painted children and charming adults alike. Occasionally, men in period costume, looking eerily like Benjamin Franklin, would unceremoniously pick a spot, stand atop their box crates and begin their sailors’ stories or talks about the evolution of the flag to whomever happened to be standing by, as was done in “the olden days”. They generally garnered a small, but appreciative, audience who stood and listened while their ice cream disappeared.

The afternoon wore on, the sun peeked through only occasionally, and the offshore breeze moved the air, which made for perfect walking weather. The patrons of the shops, restaurants, and ice cream parlors ebbed and flowed, depending on the time of day. I noticed young people were walking and talking with their families, while I counted only two sets of earbuds on youngsters all day long (obviously from the DC area and not locals). It was a perfect summer day, the clouds formed and dissipated just long enough to keep the air cool and the crowds comfortable. Young couples rode their tandem bicycles down the cobbled side streets, clearly delighted with their coordinating abilities. Boys chased their dogs that had ingeniously unhooked themselves from their leash, while moms wiped ice cream off the faces of their children. I had the sensation that at any moment Pollyanna was going to come skipping around the corner chasing her metal wheel. No one was concerned about the political correctness of the military drills, or the musket firing demonstrations or the cannon firings, although a few of those cannon firings did wake up a number of folk who were enjoying a pleasant afternoon snooze on their park benches.

At 5 pm the closing ceremonies began with the lowering of the flag in the main square, accompanied by the Brass Quintet from the Annapolis Naval Academy. These handsome young men, in their dress whites, appeared so pleased to be here, playing tunes in the big white gazebo, while the townspeople sat on the surrounding grass, listening to their music and eating free cake that had been provided by the event organizers, occasionally turning their attention to the boats bobbing in the nearby harbor.  And so we sat, for a couple of hours, on a soft summer evening, listening to the band’s selections ranging from Anderson and Souza to excerpts from West Side Story, while young boys tossed frisbees, long legged prepubescent girls giggled amongst themselves, young parents chased their happy babies and older folk tapped to the music, happily sitting by their partners and completely unconcerned with the rest of the world. At dusk, the trees lit up with candled lanterns, a bugle tapped and so ended a perfect summer day.