I almost stepped on it during a misty walk with Piper the other night.  Big as a dessert plate with brown and black mottling and bulging eyes, the toad was peacefully sitting on our rock sidewalk.  His colors blended into the stone so artfully that at first, I thought that he was a stone. He blinked in the glare of my flashlight and then stared me down.  Not in a confrontational way, or defensively.  It was more of a “I’m here minding my own business waiting for a fly-by dinner, please do not disturb” kind of look.  I didn’t disturb him, and luckily Piper did not put him in the chipmunk category and bother him either. 

He was the first toad I have seen on the farm in a long time.  I like toads. Really, I like all kinds of frogs and toads. (Toads are a subclassification of frogs, so all toads are technically frogs) When I was a kid, I often had a “pet” frog or toad during the summer months.  Sometimes my mother would let me keep a small one in a jar in the house for a few days, but usually my amphibian pets lived outside. I would watch for them quietly having supper under the porch lights. Each summer, we would get some regulars which I dutifully named:  George, Ziggy, Prince (which I thought was a hilarious joke). Funny that I don’t ever recall naming one a female name, although now I can imagine that Zelda would be a good name for a lady toad, or maybe Gertrude.  Regardless of their names, I always knew which one was which according to their coloration and size, and at the end of the evening would try to remember to include them in my “God Bless” list during bedtime prayers in addition to my cat, dog, horse, and just about every human that I knew or had encountered during the day.  I hated to go to sleep and would prolong the bedtime prayers with my dad as long as possible.

Although I loved the peaceful old toads, I also relished the adventure of catching a little wood or tree frog which my mother might allow inside for a few days.  Those little frogs were feisty and were more likely to have names like Sprite, Jumpy, or my all-time favorite Twiggy. One evening I was showing Twiggy to my cousins next door, and Twiggy jumped out of my hands in a well-orchestrated dive to freedom. I must have been five or six at the time, and this struck me as a terrible tragedy.  Always dramatic, I cried all evening until it got dark, and my dad insisted that I come inside.  Later, after I was in my pajamas, there was a knock at the door and my cousin Charles, who must have been in middle school at the time, appeared, grinning, holding something carefully cupped his hands.  It was, of course, Twiggy—or a very close look alike—and I was so grateful that I blessed Charles twice in my bedtime prayers that night!

I remember once, when I was a little older, my classmate Bobby Smith found a toad on the school playground and proceeded to torture all the girls with it.  How he grinned as he chased the girls, holding the toad in his hand as they ran screaming, afraid he was going to throw it on them.  I was not impressed.  When he approached me, I stood my ground and informed him that it was only a “little old toad,” and he ought to put it down before he hurt it. He stood still, conflicted, and for a minute I was sure that he was going to throw it on me, which was not an idea that I relished, despite my affinity for frogs. Luckily, the teacher walked up about that time and made Bobby release it safely down in the woods.  He did so sheepishly, and I don’t know who was more relieved, the poor frightened toad—or me!

Back then frogs were everywhere, and their eggs filled the ditches and low, slow areas of the creek near my house.  I was always enchanted by that goopy mass of frog eggs with black-eyed pea eyes that would eventually transform into tadpoles and then frogs.  Since my mother would not even think about letting me have a jar of ugly, dirty looking frog eggs in my room, I had to be content with a big jar or dishpan of them in the garage. It was fun to watch them change into tadpoles and then later frogs or toads.  Since I never knew what kind of frog or toad they came from, it was always an adventure to watch the tadpoles develop.  Most of the time they were bull frog eggs, but one very special time, the tadpoles transformed into tiny long-legged frogs about the size of a cricket! Wondrous!

Really, there is a lot that’s astonishing about frogs.  Interwoven into tradition and myth, they are way more mystical than their bulging-eyed beauty would suggest.  Of course, everyone knows the fairy tale where the princess kisses a frog, and it becomes a prince.  As a kid I thought that was a fun notion, but I never really believed it. (Or tried it--I loved frogs, but not that much!)  And besides, if a prince turned out to be anything at all like Bobby Smith, I decided I preferred the frog. 

Other fairy tales are not so kind. Frogs and toads are often associated with witchcraft, special spells, and malevolent concoctions.  Aesop’s fables also feature frogs, but in a way that usually does not bode well for the frog.  Frogs have a storied past. A symbol of transformation and fertility in some cultures, they are also viewed with suspicion and downright fear in others.  Frogs and toads are said to predict the weather, cure whooping cough (but only if you swallow one!), curse your home with their very warty presence, and of course give you warts if it pees on you.

As a kid, I didn’t pay much attention to that kind of stuff.  I just thought frogs were cute, albeit not in a cuddly, hamster kind of way. When my daughters were small, they enjoyed frogs too. I had an elderly relative who collected frogs, and they loved to visit her house and wander through the ceramic garden frog statues in her yard.  But they liked live frogs the best. They spent many an after-school hour catching tadpoles, salamanders, and frogs in the branches and springs on my childhood farm.  My dad, always the good sport, dutifully kept these treasures in buckets or little enclosures in his garage for a while before eventually convincing his granddaughters that they would be happier back where they came from.  When Olivia was five, she convinced him to help deliver a toad to an elderly man in the community as a birthday present!  Mr. Williams, a deacon in the Baptist church, thought that was hilarious, and never got tired of telling his fellow deacons about the time he received a frog for his birthday. I learned to investigate any croaking or splashing noises in the back of my Subaru quickly when I picked my daughters up after school just in case someone had decided to give me a frog for a special occasion.

 I still like frogs, although I don’t see near as many, particularly toads, as I used to. That’s probably because frog populations are dwindling world- wide.  And it’s not because they are being used in witch’s stews and magic spells; rather, it’s because of habitat loss, disease, pesticides, and human development. That does not portend well for frogs or humans.  Even here in the Appalachians, populations are diminishing.  The National Park Service recently announced conservation efforts along the Blue Ridge Parkway to help support amphibians in our area. These measures include better protection for the wetlands and moist forests that support frog populations. That’s good news.  It’s hard to imagine the mountains devoid of frog song, tadpoles, and the silvery splash of young frogs as they dart into the ponds.  And what a tragedy if our complacent neighborhood toads are all replaced by garden statues of toads-- and memories.

But at least for now, the abundant secluded ponds, creeks, and springs on the farm still attract frogs although I don’t remember when I last saw a ditch just abundant with frog eggs. In March, we are treated to the cacophony of spring peepers, one of the first harbingers of spring. Later, that sweet music is replaced by the deep bellows of the bull frogs on the pond, booming across the valley on summer evenings.  Winter will be very dark and lonely when the frogs are in hibernation.  Piper and I will bundle up on our nightly walks, and the sound of the wind will keep us company instead of the music of the frogs.

But the good news is that in the meantime, Piper and I found that sweet old toad on our nightly walk again just last night. He was camouflaged so well among the rocks that I wondered if he had been around all summer, and I just hadn’t noticed him. That thought made me inordinately happy.  If he is going to be a regular, I will have to name him. I think I will call him Leroy.