Amphibiana - Goddess of the Frog. Or toad. Whatever.

*** continued from previous post ***

Mom is now wandering around the grounds, lost in a euphoric trance celebrating the natural splendor of thousands of tiny frogs. Or toads. Whatever. There is a twinkle in her eye. A faraway look that comes from deep concentration. I know that look, and it scares the Bee-Jeebus out of me. She's thinking that we need to find someplace to buy a couple of tons of bugs to feed these little darlings.

I must get her out of here. Time is short. I've lost her to the squirrels. I've become second banana to the birds. I'll be damned if these froggy-toads are going to replace me in her heart. I turn to talk to her and she's gone. She's all over the place. How can she move so fast? One minute she's down by the lake's edge. Next I see her over by a concrete curb that separates the parking area from the grass, squealing with delight. It's quite obvious. She's been possessed by Amphibiana - Goddess of the Frog. Or toad. Whatever.

"Aren't these the cutest things you've ever seen?"

I must admit, although not aloud, and not to her, that while not the cutest thing I've ever seen, they are certainly right up there on the scale of adorablility.

"They are amazing", I agree. But you know sweetie, it's getting late. We've got about 300 miles to go. Probably should be heading back on the road."

Thoroughly enchanted, Mom feigns deafness.

Another car comes into the rest area. Vegan folk-singer-latte-sipper girl makes a run to get the car to stop but too late - another hippity of toads has met it's fate. Don't look at me that way, a 'hippity of toads' is an actual term describing a grouping of toads. Or frogs. Whatever. It's like a 'herd of elephants', or a 'murder of crows', or a 'retch of Republicans'.

What . . . you doubt me? Look it up on Wikipedia.

Wait . . . give me a minute . . . . . . . . and done.

It's on Wikipedia now so you know it's real.


*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

A Love of all Things Croaky

*** continued from previous post ***

Mom kneels down next to the girl and motions me over with a frantic wave of her hand. "Hey! David! Look at this!"

I look to where the two kneeling women are pointing, and realize that it's not magical hopping gravel at all, but a tiny, tiny little frog. Or Toad. Whatever. These things at their biggest are about the size of a dime, and literally ALL OVER THE FRICKIN' PLACE! Really!

How could I have not seen them before? There must be thousands and thousands of these little buggers! They are all over the road, all over the grass, all over the shore of the lake. It kind of gives me the willies. I mean, just how fat was her boyfriend?

This is not a good development. I would have to tread carefully here. You know how your Mom feels about amphibians. It's a close race between frogs and squirrels and birds and raccoons and stray cats in Mom's bestiary of love. She was enthralled - nay smitten even - and began to take numerous pictures and copious amounts of video of this miracle of nature. I feared, now that Mom was held in a toady-spell, that we may never leave this parking lot.

Regrettably, another car pulls into the rest-stop at this time. I can hear the 'crunch crunch' of tiny lives coming to an abrupt end underneath tires. Now, fully engaged in the National Geographic moment, all I want to do is save the frogs. Or toads. Whatever. Your Mother has infected me with the spirit of nature. I want to wave the car off, but really - there is nothing I can do. It is the balance of natural world. If by balance you mean tiny dime-sized frogs in fierce battle with car tires for their niche in nature. Or toads. Whatever.

The girl, enthusiastically friendly now that Mom and her share a love of all things croaky, explain to us that this is an annual migration. That the frogs, (or Toads - although they look like frogs to me - and I've seen many frogs in my day. I can tell by the color and the eyes and the hoppity-hop-hop motions), come down the hillside across the road, make their way to the lake, and then party like it's 1999 in Toadville. She recounts, in graphic detail, how they had to install a 'Toad Bypass' underneath the road, and into the parking lot because in years past, and I quote, "After a few hours, the road would become very, very slick with dead toads and it was causing many, many horrible accidents."

Yeah. Hitting, what I can only visualize as a 'smear' of toads at speeds just below the sound barrier on a slight corner would be a bit tricky. In fact, it would probably be like hitting an ice-sheet in the middle of a Tokyo Drift. (See, I'm hip...I'm with it.) Oh sure, it would be all laughs for a split second, then WHAM. Who wants that in their Obit? "Henry was driving like a typical Canadian maniac and bought it on Toad Smear Curve."

Wait a minute. On second thought . . . that would be an AWESOME Obit!


*** the journey continues Monday ***