The Frog Who Schooled Me
Illustration of an American Bullfrog, by American botanical and zoological illustrator Edward Knobel
When writing about our pond, I noted within a list of intentions that I had hoped to create a habitat for frogs. It was just one item on a list, lacking in any real detail, and also lacking the emphasis it deserved. Yes, our ultimate plan was to expand our backyard habitat into a place that would welcome a more diverse variety of beneficial insects, as well as frogs. Not just any frogs: green frogs, the small ones with a call like a banjo pluck, which are quite different than the larger American Bullfrog, with its louder “chug-a-rum.'“ (It’s most often described as “rum, rum, jug-a-rum,” but I prefer “chug-a-rum,” because it’s what Grandfather Frog in Thomas Burgess’s stories always said, and those stories will forever stick with me if I’m lucky.)
To have green frogs safely living outside our back door was a desire I had communicated so often in 2020-2021 over the past year that it was documented in my daughter’s Mother’s Day project about me in 2022: “If I had a million dollars, I would… buy you a real frog.”
During the process of digging, hauling, planting, filling, and questioning the depth and design of the pond, whenever a family member or friend or neighbor would ask, “Will you put fish in?” I’d answer, “No, this is for frogs.” Of course that was also much easier or more normal to explain in response to a simple question than insects and ecological biodiversity.
Summer
For months after filling the pond, I believed the little amphibians would just arrive, like the pollinators in the meadow and the birds in the berry-bearing shrubs. Neighbors had pulled them out of their pool and pond filters, and we’d found one in the driveway once. They were around. Now, they would be welcome and wanted somewhere we could observe and enjoy them. I stayed positive but not exactly patient.
“Kids, I think I saw a splash!”
“Really?" A frog?”
“Maybe.”
“Oh, it might have been a raindrop.”
“Oh, a splash!”
“Frogs!”
”Ah, it was a bird!”
And so on.
Autumn
Six months after I’d filled the pond with rain water, I received a text from relatives who were draining their pond to put in a pool. Some frogs needed rescuing, and we knew their pond was full of green frogs. We’d spent time identifying them over beers during a backyard barbecue in July — very normal party behavior.
This wouldn’t exactly be the “plant it, they will come” type of experiment I’d planned, but hey, natural ponds aren’t lined with rubber either. What’s just a little more manipulation of our environment in the name of nature? This would be faster, and we would be saving desperate frogs in the process.
And so, one day in late October during a lunch break, we drove to their house with buckets and boots and got to work. Our goal was to leave without a single bullfrog, so Tim and I had done our research.
When we arrived, the pond was over halfway drained and the frogs that hadn’t already bailed were scattered on rocks and lily pads like they were riding out the apocalypse. It was pretty easy to grab and ID them, and we scooped a few tadpoles into the buckets as well.
The frogs were introduced to our small pond later that day with the kids watching, and we all enjoyed a month or so observing adorable amphibians. We only witnessed one on the run. In one of Burgess’s books there is a wonderful, heartbreaking little tale Grandfather Frog being envious of his toad cousin getting out into The Great World, and so he decides to take a journey… a very dry, frightening one that thankfully brings him home to his Smiling Pool in the end.
Everything we’d planned was falling into place. Just as nature at the hands of controlling humans carried away with their own desires always does.
Winter
Winter would be the true test of my skills as an amateur wildlife pond designer. We had a pretty early frost, and the frogs disappeared to the bottom of the pond, where there was hopefully enough decomposed leaf litter and gravel for them to get comfortable.
When we had a few warm days in later December, I nearly screamed when I saw sets of frog eyes peaking just above the water. “Get back in there and hibernate!” I told the frogs.
I was a little on edge.
I felt very responsible for the success of this experiment and the survival of these little beings, because it most certainly was on me: I designed, measured, and dug the pond for the most part, and asserted my ownership of the project anytime Tim seemed hesitant or asked questions. Now I worried that there were too many frogs or that I hadn’t made a deep or wide enough center for them not to freeze to death.
Three months later, I saw the first dead green frog.
Spring
In March after the pond thawed, I was staring for signs of life when while staring hard my eyes came across a disturbing site: a bloated, floating frog. Tim removed it.
Then a few weeks later, while doing my rounds looking for early spring bloomers, I saw two green frogs laid out on a rock in a position like they were holding hands. Totally out of the pond. That was a mystery I’ll never solve. Tim dealt with them.
More time passed and not a single frog emerged from the pond, serenading us and letting me know I had done alright. I was excited for the experiments the wildlife pond would bring, but I wasn’t prepared for the death.
Where had all the frogs and tadpoles gone? Other than the ones I’d already found no longer alive. And what exactly happened to those ones anyway?
I worried about oxygen levels of the water, that rather than mostly letting it be I should have skimmed more leaves and hornwort from it more in the fall. There were foxes, a family of raccoons, and of course neighborhood cats. I just wish I had a clear answer, and a clear conscience.
Summer
The kids’ bedroom windows face the backyard, and I’ve spent many hours watching birds, squirrels, and bugs from the rocking chair at first and then their twin beds. I was doing that very thing during the third week of June, when I saw something on the largest rock. I ran downstairs to the window closest to the pond and confirmed: There was a big old frog looking out over the pond. We cheered.
The frog was so elusive I occasionally wondered whether it was still there. This wasn’t like the fall, when it was almost like always seeing a star if you stare long enough at any given spot in night sky on a clear night. I’d stare at the water and no pair of frog eyes appeared.
But then the splashing picked up, maybe as it got warmer. Every time I walked out the back door, or crept out from behind the shrubs, or snuck to the back through our gate, I saw a single splash or sometimes the frog’s legs diving under water.
Finally one night while looking through the binoculars I identified the frog as a bullfrog — the American bullfrog we tried so hard to avoid. After not hearing a single bullfrog “Chug-a-rum,” I realized the frog must be a female.
Each time I look at her through the binoculars I swear it’s like she’s staring straight through the window and into my eyes. “Is there a problem?”
While joining me at the window one day as I looked at my new friend, Mae said very matter of factly, “Mommy, maybe that bullfrog ate the smaller frogs and tadpoles. Bullfrogs will do that kind of thing.” As ridiculous as I felt about the whole thing, I was proud that I had at least taught our 6-year-old some lessons in the process, even if I had forgotten them myself.
”I learned that from TV.”
Learning, always
Habitat gardening puts us into a very interesting position as folks unlearning the ways of thinking driven by capitalism and colonialism. We learn and work to make space for those whose homes we as a society have destroyed. We plant natives, we read research, learn the insects and the birds, follow the guidelines, and, hopefully, listen to the indigenous cultures who’ve always known what we’re just now knowing.
And yet it’s so easy, even as we keep pushing toward a better way, more harmony, to slip. It’s easy to fall into the selfish, disconnected from the truly natural, or as I recently heard David Godshall of Terremoto LA say and loved, the destructive “human supremacist” approach. I want a pond for wildlife, but I want it to have green frogs and dragonflies, and I need those dragonflies to do what they do best so that I am comfortable.
I want a garden that attracts and supports birds, but I don’t want that pokeweed there because humans can’t eat it right there in the garden. I want milkweed for Monarchs, but not that milkweed, it’s too resilient. Not that one either, it has to match my palette. This isn’t to say we shouldn’t be able to create spaces that make us happy too — of course we should! — but it is my personal desire to keep pushing toward something better.
Oh, and a male bullfrog moved into the pond a few weeks ago. Chug-a-rum!
