By Theodore D. Kalvitis

In this time of great concern about mankind’s effect on his environment, it is refreshing to remind ourselves that at times we’ve affected nature in a positive way. Who, when walking a woodland path and finding a wild tree in bloom or laden with sweet fruit could have anything but kind feelings toward whoever dropped a pit or core there on a similar stroll? Daffodils, spread through the woods and down a creek, proclaim that someone set out the bulbs and delighted in the first blooms perhaps centuries ago. The stone walls of an old mill sluice keep a river at flood from eroding a grassy bank. Cold, clear spring water bubbles forth in a moss-covered stone fount constructed when this was someone’s only water source. An old tin cup hangs in a nearby tree, handy to dip. An old canal-once thriving with barges of coal, lumber and produce-is now a watery path through wilderness.

No, we’re not all bad, and that’s good to know.

For the most part, however, these changes tend to be subtle enough to go unnoticed by the casual observer. Others may have had their beginnings so long ago that they are thought to be part of Creation.

I’ve had the privilege of learning the origins of one of these changes and hearing the story first-hand from the one responsible for bringing it about. And so the story goes:

The Millstone River in central New Jersey is typical of the slow, deep rivers that flow through fertile eastern farmland. Tall sycamores, their trunks looking like peeling wallpaper, hang over the river, forming a misty cathedral-like tunnel. Openings in the leaf canopy illuminate turtles sunning themselves on fallen tree trunks. Children dive from rope-swings. Lily pads and Holsteins occupy the shallow areas near the old wagon fords along the pastures. Farther downstream are the modest back yards of a factory town, often hosting weddings, reunions and polka bands.

A lazy river . . . my childhood home overlooks the West Brook, one of the tributaries of the Millstone River. Two picture windows and a sizable flagstone porch afford a good view of the dawn and the rising moon. They also look out over the little valley through which the brook flows.

Though runoff from prosperous development of the surrounding land during the sixties and seventies would eventually give the brook a more swamp-like character, the 1950’s still saw it running full and clear. Except for bits of pottery and hardware from forgotten homesteads or an occasional Indian arrowhead amongst the pebbles on the red shale bottom, mankind had made no noticeable changes to West Brook.

On the far side of the brook the land rose gently from the reedy bank through a narrow stand of ash, oak, and maple to rolling fields occupied by all manners of wildlife, field-flowers and a semi-nocturnal John Deere A, the classic putt-putt rhythm of its two-cylinder engine sounding as natural as bird-call.

It was on those childhood nights when the moon hung yellow in the sultry haze of summer, the air rich with the scent of honeysuckle from the fields mingling with that of beer and Lucky Strikes from the darkened porch, that I first began to notice the big frogs calling from the brook.

I soon learned from my all-knowing older cousins that in this brook there were frogs and there were “bullfrogs.” The gender of the frog didn’t seem to be the issue here so much as the notion that a frog was a creature that, even when full-grown, can easily be held in one hand. A bullfrog, however, stood almost a foot tall and required both hands to catch and confine. The bullfrogs were also distinguishable by their deep, low call-somewhat like a wooden mallet striking a vast empty wooden barrel.

Later in life, on lonely nights full of adolescent anxieties, I would go out to the porch and sit gazing across the valley. As the frogs kept me company with their deep drumming calls, I would imagine their idyllic little community at the foot of the hill. Before long, my troubles forgotten or at least put into perspective, I would doze off and awaken hours later to the morning bird concert as the eastern sky lightened.

Many of life’s changes happened to me near this brook and along the Millstone River. Whether in the little towns along its banks or the many swimming holes or farmland or wilderness there, everything from donnybrooks to marriage proposals seemed to have their silent moments gently filled with the haunting call of the frogs. And that was the way of life, love, nature and frogs.

Or so I thought-until recently. It seems that the introduction of the frogs to the area is actually part of my family’s history. Nearing eighty, Uncle Pete is waxing nostalgic. This is especially interesting to me since his brother-my father-had made convenient omissions in the recounting of past events so as to provide a shining example to my generation.

Apart from the scandals, though, Pete related a time about fifty years ago when he and his three brothers had recently built their respective homes on various parts of the old family farm. Although they were all gainfully employed and doing well, they found themselves swept along on a wave of post-war ambition and went looking for ways to “get rich.” My father started a tool and die shop in addition to his regular job, and in years to come the business did prosper. Uncle Tony, who worked in the GSA depot, also ran a popcorn stand at the farmers’ market and made and sold concrete lawn ornaments (sometimes referred to as the New Jersey state flower). Uncle Vick worked for a large manufacturer of fireproof materials, farmed a little, and dabbled in real estate.

Uncle Pete also went to work for a large manufacturing firm and had a few sidelines of his own. One of these, though not ultimately successful, has had a dramatic and lasting effect.

Pete’s attention was drawn to a magazine advertisement promising huge profits in frog farming, frog legs being considered a delicacy by the elite-or so the ad stated. The advertiser bred gigantic frogs in some swampy southern outpost and would sell breeding stock to farmers who could then raise the monster frogs and sell them to uptown restaurants and butcher shops in the cities nearby.

Being equidistant between New York and Philadelphia, Uncle Pete began to sense success waiting in the dark water of his pond at the edge of the woods. Pete sent off his order, and in the late spring the call came from the railroad stationmaster.

With so many small farms in operation in those days, the transport of live cargo was a routine matter and rail shippers had become quite expert at it. There were occasional mishaps, though, like the goat who ate his shipping label. The goat then became the station’s mascot, keeping the grass and weeds under control while awaiting a claimant.

Showing little concern, the goat munched a mouthful of crabgrass while Pete found the lidded pail of tadpoles among the boxes of baby chickens, ducks, rabbits, and honeybees. Pete took the wiggly young amphibians home and released them into the pond. It would take as long as three years for the frogs to grow to their maximum size.

A year showed that the frogs approved of their surroundings-into the second year the herd seemed to grow in size and a small harvest seemed possible. Pete had a lead on one or two buyers. Though not full-grown the frogs were indeed huge, and their low deep song echoed across the hay-stubbled fields and through the forest. But the harvest was not to be.

The frogs’ last-minute reprieve came in the form of a hurricane which swept in suddenly from the Atlantic Ocean. To prevent farm fields from becoming muddy bogs some means of drainage had to be provided. About two hundred years prior to these events, the farmers that cleared these fields had created swales (wide, gently graded ditches) along the edges and in the low places, eventually directing them to empty into a nearby brook or river. Over the years, these swales have blended into the landscape and are nearly invisible in dry weather.

With the arrival of a significant storm, though, the grass in these swales would lie flat under a swift clear torrent. These little streams ran full for about a day after a major storm. Little children would sit beside them with homemade fishing poles while enduring the ridicule of the older kids, who “knew” that there were no fish to be caught. That is, until some little tyke actually did catch a fish!

How is this possible?

The land rolled gently from the foot of the Sourland Mountains to the creek bottoms. The swales interconnected with each other, each field corner forming a confluence. Thus, should a pond’s dam break or overflow, fish, frogs, and other creatures could be swept along across the fields for the better part of a mile. For days after the storm, snapper turtles could be seen patiently hoofing it back to their pond or swamp.

And so it went with Uncle Pete’s frogs. From the pond, through the fields and woods and down to the headwaters of West Brook about half a mile upstream from the house my dad built. From there these jolly field-surfing leviathans moved down the brook, some establishing households along the way, and on to the Millstone River. The frogs found the river to their liking and demonstrated their approval by procreating generously.

A river flows past my present home in West Virginia and yes, frogs do call on a summer night. But only when I go back to the Millstone do I hear the real baritones. Though Pete’s frog business never did recover, its legacy endures along the muddy river banks of the old Garden State. Perhaps some day, if the situation presents itself and if I’m anything like the frog catcher I was as a child, some descendants of the frogs that rode the train north to New Jersey will find their way back across the Mason-Dixon line to the river that flows through my back yard. From there, down the Cacapon and on down the Potomac. Who knows? Perhaps someone will be sitting on his porch late at night, trying to sort out various worries and cares, and the call of the big frogs will help relax his mind-and create a little more peace at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.