Frog Songs

Did you know frogs have their own stories to tell?

Neither did I, until one night after a long day on the range I was listening to them sing in the mire and found myself understanding what they were singing.

This was a long time ago, before internets and Wifis and cellphones so, for a child out in the back country, there were really only two things to entertain oneself: do chores or avoid chores.

My favorite pastime was avoiding chores, and what avoiding chores looked like on a cattle ranch in the country was “checking fence”. I will note, my friends, that if you aim to avoid chores of any kind it is important to find a task that looks like a chore but is enjoyable.

“Checking Fence” is an age-old practice which is exactly what it sounds like: you walk or ride along the various fences on the property and make sure there are no broken areas or gaps. If you end up with a broken space it lets your cows out and the neighbor cows in, which can get messy quickly. I should note as well, that cattle properties are not exactly small spaces and this particular operation was apportioned by about 100 miles of fence

For me, ‘checking fence’ meant a day with my horse named Roma.

How it usually worked is I’d help with the morning rounds, we’d have our lunch, then I’d get Roma ready. Preparations for fence checks were fairly simple: a length of wire, wire pullers, a hammer, fence nails, a rope, plenty water, and some snacks for both me and Roma. Over the summer I developed a specific rotation: I’d always check certain sections near the cattle’s activity, then I’d check other sections of the ‘low activity’ portions of the property.

Usually, I’d encounter no issues; the cattle grazed in their aimless ways and the fence would be stretched tight and unperturbed. I thought myself a rather clever lad for having found a way to help while effectively doing nothing.

What I hadn’t really thought through was that I’d eventually encounter a hole, and this on particular ride it wasn’t only a hole but mess of cattle as well.

The thing about cattle (and I’ll tell you some of their Bovinic Bardinations at a later time), is that they believe whole-heartedly that the grass is much sweeter in the neighbor’s pasture. And in this case there was approximately a 1:1 blend of neighbor cattle to our cattle.

Now, your cattle mixed with neighbor’s cattle is always an inconvenience, but the level of inconvenience is governed by two factors:

1) Similarity of the cows

2) The number of (competent) people involved.

My equation for complexity is simple: take the similarity of the cows as the baseline for inconvenience, add the number of incompetent people, then subtract the number of competent people, or: Inconvenience = (S+I)-C. It is a golden equation, and one I think Einstein himself would be proud of.

In this particular excursion, the inconvenience was a 7. The cows were similar colors, but all branded so they were about a 9 in terms of similarity. It also just so happened that our neighbor, Vern, was already there which gave us two relatively competent people.

I “hullood” as I approached (for those who don’t know, a ‘hulloo’ is a way to politely, but loudly, announce your arrival when: A) Approaching someone’s house in the country, or B) Approaching someone on the range who may or may not be armed).

Duly announced, we exchanged pleasantries and neighborly exasperation at the antics of livestock, and appreciation of the wonderful fortune of such timely help.

Vern lived, perhaps, a mile from the hole- not far, by any means (especially since he had his truck) but far enough to be a bother when cows needed herded. I had ridden an hour or two, at a gentle pace I’ll admit, but country logistics dictate that the more you try to simplify a situation the more complicated it becomes.

Rather than try to find additional help (and risk adding further inconvenience to the situation), we sufficed with the two of us and successfully got the cattle sorted and the fence fixed. It was approaching dusk when we finished, and Vern offered to give me a ride.

I politely declined, but asked that he call my folks when he got home and let them know I’d be riding along the county road back to the house.

It was quite dark by time I got home, and my father sat on the deck sippin a whiskey.

I hulloo’d as I passed the house so he’d know I was back, but rode past so I could put Roma away and get her a good helping of hay.

It is important to take care of your critters. I gave her a good brushing and a short walk, then let her loose in a little pen attached to the barn. She took a hearty roll in the dirt as soon as the halter was off, then idled into the barn to eat her hay and grain.

Now, before you go thinking I’ve forgotten about the frog songs, this is when I not only heard their chants but also understood them.

You see, our barn was positioned at the top of a small rise, which lead down a draw where the spring runoff and rainwater would collect and form a bit of a pond. It happened to have been a wet spring, so the draw was exceptionally full and the frogs had taken good advantage of the surplus.

Here, I need you to imagine this sensation with me: it was a summer evening- the kind with the warm air and cool sky, and the slight scent of water in the air; a bit like water on fresh cut grass but with a little more earth to it. And the sky, oh the sky out there was so vast and full of stars, dark yet resplendent with the million little lights.

In that setting, I heard the croaking chorus of the summer songs of frogs and the dim harmony of Roma munching hay.

And I was surprised to realize I understood what they were singing, which was something like this:

Ga-ri-garo ‘ ga-ri, ga-ri-garo ‘ ga-ri

We’ve heard of ‘ the tales, of hearing of ‘ the tales

Humans tell ‘ by fires, in the warm light ‘ of fires

We wish they ‘ could hear, the fables that ‘ we hear

Told here ‘ in water, in starlight ‘ in water

I’ll tell you one

Do tell

Do tell us two

Do well

The Frog of old ‘ the father frog, did hop

Did hop?

Did hop?

Did hop?

From waters dark ‘ father frog, from waters dark ‘ did hop

His hop it pulled ‘ up mud, it marshy pulled ‘ the mud

He spread the mud ‘ rested on, the marshy mud ‘ he rested

He rested on ‘ the marshy mud

Marshy mud

Marsh mud

Mushy

And resting there ‘ he looked, from there he looked ‘ and saw

Sweet mother moon ‘ pale bright, so beautiful ‘ and bright

And mother moon ‘ still young the moon ‘ Lit fair father’s heart

His heart

His art

Old frogther

And frogther ‘ frog, fair father ‘ frog

Sang his song ‘ Sweet song, and let his heart ‘ his frogger song

Ring out upon ‘ the marsh, to mother moon ‘ above the marsh

The marsh

In march?

Marshy marsh

But mother moon ‘ no words she gave, no words she shone ‘ fair moon

So nightly sang ‘ sonorous song, fair father’s ‘ failing song

And mother moon ‘ sad silent moon, waned and went ‘ away

Now moonless night ‘ star speckled night, fair father sat ‘ and wept

He wept

We wept

He cried

A week alone he ‘ sadly sang, weak and alone he ‘ sadly sang

He wore his voice ‘ to match the marsh, and ate the rocks ‘ from on the marsh

When moon returned ‘ he barely spoke, and for the tears ’ of joy he choked

His heart rejoiced ‘ fool father frog, he tuned his voice ‘ fool father frog

Father frog

Frogther fool

Fooly fool

and when he sang ‘ of joy he choked, he didn’t sing ‘ but gave a croak

a croak!

A croak

Croaky croak

Ga-ri-Ga-ro a croak!