When Peepers Sing Again

When Peepers Sing Again

                  There was a depression on my side lawn that always formed a sheet of ice when temperatures dipped below freezing every winter. Taking the hint we flooded the area for skating—a faux pond. The seed was sown, I dreamed of a real pond. My property is rural and large so there was no earthly reason why I couldn’t have one except for that human nature thing called procrastination.

         However, one year my septic field failed and it was decided that the required fill could be pulled from the concave spot in the yard and accomplish two things at once. I would have a pond.

         A crew arrived with the granddaddy of all machines. A humungous thing with a behemoth claw scooped to bedrock some ten feet down in less than a morning. The final result - a sixty by ninety foot hole – a very dry hole. My expectations of seeing water gush in from an underground spring were dashed - all I got was a hole, a very big ugly cavity in my side lawn.

         Somewhere in the great beyond my ever-attentive gods heard my plea. I had no sooner dug than the heavens opened and like Noah’s story, we had days and nights of downpour. Local farmers pointed accusing fingers at me as their crops treaded water. Within a month, my hole was almost filled from run-off and rainfall. That was thirty years ago.

         It has now become a refuge and playground for animals, fish and humans. The ‘big-dig’ is one of the best gifts I have ever given myself.

         Every winter this excavation, gripped in ice, invites young and old to grab shovels and scrape the frozen surface. Energy driven hockey games powered by loud shouting and boisterous cheers, play out until late evening. Leisure gliding on a silver surface in the moonlight is accompanied by music filtering from the tree-top speakers.

         When the ice leaves the pond takes on a different life, it comes alive with water creatures and visiting wildlife. Several species of frogs, leopard, brown, green and large bull frogs call my pond home—the young peepers loud in the early spring evenings. Several turtle clans arrived too. Both species found their way to settle there and have thrived through numerous generations. Bulrushes, water lilies and other wetland vegetation have moved in. The only creatures I added were fifteen goldfish. They too, have naturalized, and hatched hundreds of offspring. Every year on the first hot day, the surface turns orange with small fingerlings coming to the surface to sunbathe. A stately heron, with long measured strides patrols the banks for tasty snacks. Bitterns, still as corn stalks, eye unsuspecting frogs. I welcome these predators. It’s all about nature’s balance. However, there are limits to my generosity. It is not uncommon to see me out waving a broom at a hawk clutching a golden prize as I’m screaming “drop that fish”.

         Painted turtles lie semi-submerged below craned necks and with watchful eyes watch their busy world—like submarine scopes. These amphibians observe everything that happens in and around the water. They keep their focus on me as I move stealthily with my camera to capture never-ending photo opportunities. On occasion a snapping turtle finds it way to my yard. I have become adept at flipping them over, scooping them into a deep bucket and driving them off to the near-by river. Not all creatures are welcome.

         Curled up bank-side on a bench reading a book, I once watched a garter snake skim rapidly through the ripples honing in on an unsuspecting frog. Even in my mini-lake the balance of nature can be cruel, yet always fascinating.

         Furry and feathered visitors frequent the shore. Mallard ducklings line up behind their mother testing their first swim every year. A doe comes regularly for a drink at twilight. One year muskrats moved in for a season. They riddled the banks with tunnels, creating a hazard for my lawnmower but they nicely weeded out invasive bulrushes

         On a crisp September morning a playful otter was rolling and swirling in the middle of the pond. I grabbed a cozy throw and a lawn chair and cautiously eased as close to the water as I dared. It started moving away in a zig-zag pattern. I moved closer. It moved back. It soon became evident that the closer I moved the farther it moved, always repeating the same zig-zag pattern, always the same distance from me. I decided to stay put and just enjoy its company. We spent several hours together before I reluctantly went to work. Sadly, it was gone when I returned never to be seen again except in my memory’s eye.

         Choreographed by nature I have a never-ending performance. The water’s surface is a stage on which darting beetles perform intricate maneuvers, swirling and twirling. Dragonflies costumed in iridescent colors hover and pose, their reflection mirrored. Glossy black swallows doing aerial maneuvers dive to barely touch, then lift creating circular ripples that wash to nothing. Frogs grande jete from lily pads then surface to scan their audience for approval. Golden fish flair their tails and swim by in formation.     

         The pond is ever a discovery playground. Children spend adventurous hours riding in the peddle boat, feeding the fish and catching frogs. The first to jump into the water once the ice is gone is an early spring ritual challenge. The young braves of our tribe always take up the dare. The cheering section, me, stands by video-taping.

         Tadpoles morph into frogs, caterpillars cocoon in the rushes, turtles bury eggs—wonders of nature are ever present. The children learn hunting skills as they move with furtive steps to catch a frog. The slippery prize often escapes, leaving a temporary pout on the face of its would-be captors. A successful capture of a big-eyed amphibian peeking out between small thumbs and forefingers is a wide-smile reward.

         The family dog slinks through the reeds, crouched low and focused, stalking freckled frogs dozing in the sun. A sudden leap and the prey escapes into the water, the disappointed hunter watching—ears back. I’m sure the frogs know the game and wait until the last moment to spring from the reaching paw laughing—that’s if frogs laugh.

         Every year, when winter draws to a close I worry for the life beneath the ice. Our climate is changing and the water levels are lower, will there be enough to sustain life? Did the creatures that settled in for the winter months deep under the ice survive? Will the water quality still be safe? Will my pond come alive again? With the first breath of warm spring air I wait and listen—and that is when I hear the peepers sing.