THE FROG POND

 

 

Shakopee, Minnesota. The summer of 1958. I was 7 years old and in the 4th grade.  [I started school at an early age since I graduated from high school at 17 in 1969.]  We lived about two miles east of Shakopee in a rented farm house owned by Howard. All I know is Howard. Howard owned the house we lived in, the barn we played in, and the surrounding land and pastures that I explored every day of every summer we lived there, which couldn’t have been more than two.
A quarter mile to the south ran the railroad tracks. We flattened many a penny on those rails. About half that distance from the tracks ran Highway 101. Savage to the east, and Shakopee to the west. Across 101 was Howard’s pasture. As I remember it, a forested pasture inhabited by Howard’s Black Angus bulls and cows. As fierce as the bulls looked with the saw toothed brass rings in their noses, they were pretty tame. I could approach them and pet them like pets. We had no fear of each other.

     In the middle of the pasture, was a large Oak tree.  At the base of the tree was a spring fed pond, a cow pond I suppose, with crystal clear water. As I approached the pond for the first time, there were frogs. Hundreds of frogs hopping in the direction of the pond and they’d jump into the water until I didn’t see them anymore. I sat on the edge of the pond, and I watched and waited. After awhile a head would break the surface of the water, then another and another and they’d swim toward the edge of the pond creating a little wake as they swam on the surface, to see where they were headed.  Soon they became used to me being there, watching, studying their every movement.
When we lived in south Minneapolis, Lake Calhoun was about a mile (twelve blocks) away. Once I walked to the lake with my older brothers to swim and play in the water, but while playing tag and chasing my big brother out into the lake, I suddenly slipped underwater into a drop off, as they were called. I was struggling for air and was pulled out by the brother I was chasing. He was still laughing, but I wasn’t. I started hating him a little after that.
On another occasion, back in Shakopee, I was out in the pasture again with our dad and my big brother. They were gathering wood, and I was exploring around like I usually did. It was cold, winter wasn’t far off, but I spotted some movement on the ground. It was a frog. Slow and lethargic, but still alive. I gently cupped it in my hands to warm it up. In my excitement, I ran over to my big brother to show him. “Look what I found.” I said.  “Let me see,” he said, and took my hand with the frog in it and squeezed it as hard as he could until we watched it’s little guts come out of it’s mouth. And he started laughing at his funny joke, and I started to cry looking at the dead frog in my hand. I whimpered for a bit, and then started laughing too. It was kind of funny, but, being the same big brother that lured me into the drop off, I started to hate him a little more.       So, I was on the side of the frog pond.  Watching, mesmerized by the wonderfully perfect creatures performing before me, I’d watch one jump into the water, disappear for awhile, then pop back up. I was so overwhelmed with curiosity, I eased into the water and sat on the bottom at the edge. I was in the pond with my frogs. Like I wasn’t there, they continued their playful activity.  Then I was kneeling in the center of the pond and realized that I was holding my breath while I watched the spectacle of them darting through the water like bullets, this way and that way, with grace and ease down to the bottom where they would find the air pockets in the underwater moss that almost glowed an emerald green. From that moment on, I’d come up for air and I would try to spend more time underwater, than above it.  And then it was time to go home.
So began my affinity for frogs and my love for the water. I became a competitive swimmer, a spring board diver, and extremely confident in my ability to swim under water. Soon a face mask, snorkel and fins were standard gear that I would tote to the lake. Diving for golf balls in Basset Creek, that ran through the local golf course became a popular pastime, as well as getting a little spending money with the other balls we found. Avoiding the course ranger became second nature.
After graduating from North High School in 1969, I enlisted in the Navy. While waiting for the call from Uncle Sam on the 120 day cache program, my recruiter, Jolly Richardson called me up and asked how I would like to volunteer for UDT? Being an inner city hillbilly, I asked “what’s UDT?”  “Frogman bullshit,” he said.  How could I say no.