One Froggy Morning

One Froggy Morning

By Valerie Allgrove 1990

Stone Pond, on the edge of Marlborough, New Hampshire, is not quite big enough to be considered a real lake, but it tries. The water is deep and clear, fed by the remnant of glacial springs, and surrounded by wooded hills. As the name suggests, there are numerous stones scattered everywhere, from pebbles to boulders the size of school buses.

The only road leading to Stone Pond is unpaved, despite occasional chatter from townspeople down in the valley.. I always enjoyed that road, seem by the headlights of our hurtling car, as we drove up from Connecticut late on Friday nights. The road is real Old New England dirt-and-gravel, full of turns and hills. It is so narrow in places that two cars cannot pass, but must back up to find a wide place.

The lake itself is shape like a puffy letter W, with the western part on Marlborough and other the eastern shore in Dublin. Because of a difference in building codes, however, the Dublin side is packed three deep with cottages, white ours has a total of less than twenty spread out over three quarters of the ponds shoreline.

When I was six, mornings at Stone Pond always started with a swim. Attire of the day consisted of a bathing suit, unless we went to town. We had a small wharf just big enough to tie our sailboat up, and plenty big enough for my family to sun and eat breakfast on. The water area to the right of the wharf had been built up by my parents. Filled in with sand, it sloped slowly down from the depth of about a foot to two and a half feet.

Across from the wharf was a desk-sized boulder with a depression in the center, earning it the name of Chair Rock. Our U shaped swimming area was perfect for a small child to paddle around in.

I learned to swim at about the time I began walking. Dogpaddle was my mainstay, plus a lot of underwater zooming. My mother never worried when I disappeared under the surface, but I remember a guest plunging in and hauling me out.

Most of my time spent swimming underwater involved trying to catch the salamanders (newts) which enjoyed our sandy bottom. The swimming area went out about fifteen feet, then came to a rock and plunged down a foot. Naturally, the salamander favored the place where the water was about four and a half feet deep.

My real loves were the great big green frogs living on the edge of the pond. There were always plenty to try and catch, except for the year we had a family of mink living in the neighborhood. My dad would take me out in the old blue rowboat and we would cruise near the shore, looking for the tell-tale reflection of the eyes and throat in the still water. I became very good at catching frogs, gently holding them around the waist and dropping them into a covered bucket. When we had six or seven, we would bring our catch home to show mom. Then we would have a jumping contest and free the frogs for the next time.

In my enthusiasm one time, I went a little overboard in pursuit of a huge, green-throated bullfrog. Dad and I were on the other end of the pond where the farthest cove is shallow and has fragrant white water lilies growing in it. As well, it harbors an excellent selection of croakers.

I was leaning out of the boat as far as I could, tummy squished into the gunwale, and I lost my balance. Splash! In I went, and the frog jumped away. I was upset, more so as I discovered that the bottom of the cove was oozy muck and I was sinking into it. I grabbed hold of the painter on the front of the boat and managed to pull myself up and flop back in. As we rowed away I could see the big green-throat, safely far back in the blueberry bushes. He looked like he was laughing.

Stone Pond has not changed too much since I was six. It is still a quiet place of retreat. I missed my annual frog hunt this year because the mink had come back and frogs were scarce but I do not doubt I will be after them again next year. I have changed and keep on changing from that six year old who had nothing on her mind beyond frogs, but she is yet a part of me. Just wait until next year, old Green-throat!