Season of the Frog (Part II)

This is the 2nd part in a series.

Under the full moon I went. I locked my bike up at the edge of the park knowing that sometimes the best approach is a gradual one. I walked by the first patch of ash trees all huddled together in mass, like a group of gossiping teens. And there under the full light of the lunar star was a bench – my first stop. I smoked a little, drank a little, and took it all in - the sound of the frogs in the distance, the way the cool night air felt on my hands and face, the night sky being painted and repainted by the incoming clouds. America must have been singing of spring when they said, the days are longer, the nights are stronger, than moonshine.

After while, I moved on, approaching my final destination, getting closer and closer. The moon’s reflection danced off puddles of water – molded by clumps of grass, rippling water, and clouds. And the frogs sang on, getting louder and louder with every step. I’ve been here several times over the years, but tonight they were at a whole new level. They were so entranced by their mating song; they didn’t even notice my approach. Not until I made it to the bench hidden in the darkness, under the trees, behind the water, mud, and grasses of the Amazon wetlands. All it took was one careless step and one frog went silent - then another, and another, and another. They dropped off like dominoes. Only the sound of the night air remained.

So I sat motionless, waiting. The frogs picked-up one by one, as I knew they would, adjusting to my presence, getting louder and louder. Soon they hit their peak and it was deafening. Sill I wanted more. I dreamed of plopping myself right in the middle of all that amphibian madness, but I figured the frogs didn’t want a human messing with their little orgy. So I listened on from a safe distance instead.

16 of the 32 ounces of beer had already made their journey from the bottle to my kidneys and now they were telling me it was time for the next part of the trip. So, I walked to the edge of the wetlands. A few solitary frogs were there singing their love song. “What are you guys doing out here?” I thought in their direction, “All the fun’s over there.” And I considered their chances of finding a mate, all the way out here, away from the crowd. Not too good. Survival of the fittest I guess. But is it really a question of the fittest, the strongest, versus the weak, the weakest? I’m not so sure. Maybe these frogs are just different. It’s not a difference a scientist would notice with all his or her abstract classifications based on physical appearance. No, it’s a difference on the inside, a difference in heart, in spirit, in personality. Maybe these frogs don’t like crowds. Maybe they don’t like following the masses. Maybe these frogs for some reason or another are different from all the other frogs. That doesn’t make them less valuable. After all, it’s diversity that makes the world the interesting, ever changing, beautiful place that it is. And aren’t these frogs just as much a part of that as the others? More? In fact, if variety is the spice of life, aren’t these rare, lonely frogs in some ways, the most precious frogs of all?

“Maybe. But that's a hard life to bear.” I thought to myself as I wished them luck and returned to my bench near the more obvious mass of frog existence.

I stayed with the frogs for some time, and when the beer was gone, it was time to go. I headed home, bought more beer, and spent the night drinking, smoking, writing, and thinking. I stayed-up till five in the morning. I woke at nine for work, had a job interview at one, and at nightfall did it all over again. This is how I live.

Season of the Frog (Part I)

There are two kinds of people in Eugene: those that have been along the Amazon bike path on a springtime evening, and those that haven’t. It’s pretty easy to figure out. You just ask, “Hey, have you ever ridden along the Amazon bike path at night?” You’ll either get a strange look and a comment like, “No, why?” Or you’ll get an excited, “Yeah, isn’t it amazing.” And then you’ll both share a moment reflecting on the crazy, frog sounds of spring.

They’re always on my mind this time of year. Just a couple weeks ago I was telling a friend about them. She falls under the “those that haven’t” category. “They’re pretty cool,” I explained, “Sometimes I get a fourty-ouncer, go over to the park, and just listen to them.”
“Don’t they get quiet when you get near?”
“Yeah, but if you stay there long enough, they’ll start-up again. First you’ll hear one, then another, and then another, one-by-one, and then suddenly they’ll all kick-in at the same time – ribbit, ribbit, ribbit.” I motioned my hands up and down like frogs.
“You can actually see them?” she asked.
“No, I’m just imagining that’s what they look like,” I said as I flashed a smirk in her direction, “And then someone will go by on a bike, and they’ll get all quiet again. But after a while, they’ll start right back up, one by one, just like before. After a few times of that you can’t help but wonder if it’s always the same ones that start-up first.”
“Like the leaders?”
“Kind of, but it’s more like, are they the ones willing to take the biggest risk?”
She got a big smile on her face.

So, I’ve been meaning to visit my raucous friends for some time, but it’s always raining or just too damn cold – until last Sunday.

Earlier that day, someone told me we were seeing the last of the unseasonably warm, sunny weather. The clouds would be rolling in some time that night and the rains wouldn't be too far behind. "It will have to be tonight then," I told myself.

But when the moment arrived, inertia was against me. Time wasn’t on my side either. It was already 10PM and I was expecting a work call at nine the next morning. Not necessarily a big deal, but I wasn’t heading out there just to listen to a few notes and then be on my way back home. No, to truly appreciate something like this, you have to spend time with it. And you don’t go empty handed. A spliff and a fourty are mandatory. But I know myself. If I really start having a good time, well, there may be another fourty, and another spliff, and then maybe another fourty, and another spliff, so on, and so on. I reconsidered, thinking of all the options.

I could just wait till the next nice night - when I don't have to get-up early. But when will there ever be a night like this - it’s fairly warm, there's a full moon, it’s not raining, but it’s been raining really hard the last few days - perfect frog climate. No, this is the night. There will be no other.

I could skip the spliff and/or the fourty. Yeah, right.

So I said, “fuck it,” and threw caution to the wind.

To be continued....