I believe
everyone loves spring. Some love it because it signals the end of
winter, others because it signals the beginning of the end of another
school year. Some like it for the sounds, others the smells, and still
others simple like the way the air feels. Even people who love a brisk
winter and hate the stifling heat of summer enjoy the change of seasons.
There
is a disagreement, however, on exactly when spring starts. Some people
say that the first really warm, sunny day signifies the end of winter;
others say that the last frost signifies the first of spring. The
calendar can't even say for sure; some years, it's March 21, and other
years it's the twentieth or twenty-second.
I
let the frogs tell me.
I have
always liked frogs. Some of my earliest and best memories are of frog
hunting at Lake Martin. All of us youngsters loved frog hunting, even
the girls, and trying to catch as many as possible was a nightly ritual.
The
frogs would begin to call just before dark. The first long, drawn-out
nasal "waaah" was a siren to us. When that alarm went off,
all previous priorities fell behind the new number one--being the
first to get a flashlight.
The
flashlights were kept on a bookcase shelf, but unlike the books, they
never got the chance to gather dust. Instead this sacred spot
became the scene of nightly chaos as a mass of children's arms and
legs stuck out wildly from a ball of young humanity that scrambled
and wriggled towards the precious frog-finders. I always got one,
not because I was the biggest, strongest or oldest, (in fact, I was
the smallest, weakest and youngest) but because my parents owned the
cabin. Rank has it privileges and vice versa.
I always
got involved in the scramble, though, because it was excitement incarnate,
and because I had to make sure that my best friend Jimbo got a flashlight
too. Otherwise, some of the girls might catch more frogs than him.
Besides, I didn't want to have to share, which was always a possibility
if you didn't grab one in time.