There came a time when the Graveyard no longer met my wandering needs. I started traveling farther and farther afield, 15 minutes at a time. That’s how far the Pond and the Woods were away. They were where I played and where I begin to learn about nature. As such, they earned a capital P and capital W— and are the subject of my next two Monday posts. First up is the Pond.
There were a number of ponds in the area. Oscar ‘Ot’ Jones had one on his ranch for cattle; Caldor had one where logs waited for their appointment with the buzz saw; Forni had one over the hill from his slaughterhouse, and Tony Pavy had one that was supposedly off-limits. But there was only one capital P Pond, the one next to the Community Hall. If I told Marshall, my parents or my friends I was going to the Pond, they knew immediately where I would be.
It was a magical place filled with catfish, mud turtles, bullfrogs and pirates. Although the Pond was small, it had a peninsula, island, deep channel, cattails and shallows. In spring, redwing blackbirds nested in the cattails and filled the air with melodic sound. Mallards took advantage of the island’s safety to set up housekeeping. Catfish used holes in the bank of the peninsula to deposit hundreds of eggs that eventually turned into large schools of small black torpedoes dashing about in frenetic unison. Momma bullfrogs laid eggs in strings that grew into chubby pollywogs. When they reached walnut size, tiny legs sprouted in one of nature’s miracles of transformation. Water snakes slithered though the water with the sole purpose of thinning out the burgeoning frog population and I quickly learned to recognize the piteous cry of a frog being consumed whole. Turtles liked to hang out in the shallows where any log or board provided a convenient sunning spot. They always slid off at our appearance but a few quiet minutes would find them surfacing to reclaim lost territory.
By mid-summer the Pond would start to evaporate. The shallow areas surrendered first, sopped up by the burning sun. Life became concentrated in a few square yards of thick, tepid water, only inches deep and supported by a foot of squishy mud. All too soon the Pond was bone-dry with mud cracked and curled. Turtles, snakes and frogs crawled, slithered and hopped away to other nearby water. Catfish dug their way into the mud and entered a deep sleep, waiting for the princely kiss of winter rains. Ducks flew away quacking loudly, leaving only silence behind. Fall and winter rains found the pond refilling and then brimming. Cloudy, gray, wind-swept days rippled the water and created a sense of melancholy that even an eight-year-old could feel.
But melancholy was a rare emotion for the Pond. To us, it was a playground with more options than an amusement park. A few railroad ties borrowed from Caldor and nailed together with varying sized boards made great rafts for exploring the furthest, most secret corners of the Pond. Imagination turned the rafts into ferocious pirate ships that ravaged and pillaged the far shores or primitive bumper cars guaranteed to dunk someone, usually me. In late spring, the Pond became a swimming hole, inviting us to test still cold waters. One spring, thin ice required a double and then triple-dare before we plunged in. It was a short swim. Swimsuits were always optional and rarely worn. I took my first swimming lessons there and mastered dog paddling with my Cocker Spaniel, Tickle, providing instructions. More sophisticated strokes would wait for more sophisticated lakes.
Frogs and catfish were for catching and adding to the family larder. During the day, a long pole with fishing line attached to a three-pronged hook and decorated with red cloth became irresistible bait for bullfrogs. At night, a flashlight and a spear-like gig provided an even more primitive means of earning dinner. The deep chug-a-rums so prominent from a distance became silent as we approached. Both patience and stealth were required. A splash signified failure as our quarry decided that sitting on the bottom of the Pond was preferable to joining us for dinner. Victory meant a gourmet treat, frog legs. Preparation involved amputating the frog’s hind legs at the hips and then pealing the skin off like tights. It was a lesson I learned early: if you catch it, you clean it. We were required to chop off the big feet as well. Mother didn’t like being reminded that a happy frog had been attached hours earlier. She also insisted on delayed gratification. Cooking the frog legs on the same day they were caught encouraged them to jump around in the frying pan. “Too creepy!” she declared.
Catching catfish required nerves of steel. We caught them by hand as they lurked with heads protruding from their holes in the banks. Nerves were required because the catfish had serious weapons, needle sharp fins tipped with stingers that packed a wallop. They had to be caught exactly right and held firmly, which was not easy when dealing with a slimy fish trying to avoid the frying pan. But their taste was out of this world and had the slightly exotic quality of something that ate anything that couldn’t eat them.
The Woods were an equally magical place to go, and they are the subject of of next Monday’s post.
Wednesday’s Blog-A-Book Post from The Bush Devil Ate Sam: I join the 1964 Free Speech Movement at Berkeley and cross the border between concern over what was happening on campus to actively promoting change through civil disobedience.
32 thoughts on “The Pond: Where I Learned How to Amputate Legs…”
Reblogged this on Love and Love Alone.
Thanks, again. Much appreciated! –Curt
I’m pretty sure I’d have to forgo frog legs if it meant I had to do the amputating! But good for you. I love your accounts of outdoor play. Not sure kids today get enough of this.
Three positives, Rusha: Learning about nature, using our imaginations, and plenty of exercise! I think many parents are very protective and possibly paranoid. –Curt
It’s been a long time since I had frog legs. My dad used to make them.
I’ve had flog legs a couple of times over the years, and one time not too long ago, Peggy. But they aren’t a part of our everyday diet. 🙂 –Curt
What a fun childhood you had!
Many, many happy memories, AC. It was a great area to grow up in. –Curt
Great post Curt, reminded me of my boyhood days playing around the canal.
When I first moved to diamond springs my man and I walked out big dog down tulis mine road where ventured onto abandoned cattle property where we discovered two good size ponds I can only picture it as the place you speak of!
We caught many frogs there and walked them to the mobile home park close by where my folks lived…..never had a mosquito problem after importing a few hundred small bullfrogs and tree frogs!
I picture your words well!
Thanks for them all!
Indeed, there is a good sized pond down there. It was created later when we were in high school, or maybe even after. But it would be a great frog lake and is a good reminder of what our pond was like. I spent a lot of time wandering down in those canyons. I have a couple of tales coming up that refer to them! Sadly, the pond where we played has long since been bulldozed over. When you drive toward El Dorado and make a right turn onto the Missouri Flat Road, the Lion Clubs’ hall is on your right and a service station is on your left, Carol. The service station stands where the old pond once started. The Lion’s Club hall was the Community Hall of our youth. Thanks much for your comments about Diamond! –Curt
I moved to diamond about two years before the station was built there.
It really ruined the viewing of the meteor showers in August with all of the lights. That was just a swampy corner for sure.
Recently moved to eastern idaho but look forward. To each of your stories.
I am captivated by them all!
Thanks so much. I visited Diamond a couple of weeks ago when I was visiting old friends of mine in Placerville. Can you believe they are planning a by-pass around the town! I’m on a summer break from blogging now but will get back to the tales this fall. –Curt
I love these posts of your childhood so very very much Curt. Thank you for sharing. I remember my cousins coming in with frog legs to cook and my aunt would cook them but I don’t remember them moving in the pan! I rather thought the consistency was a little rubbery so I wasn’t a huge fan.
A few hours in the refrigerator always seemed to cure the jumpiness, Sylvia. I never found them rubbery, unlike rattlesnake meat that almost makes your teeth bounce. 🙂
I had frog legs some years back. I liked them. I nearly ate crocodile too, but something stopped me. I did not really like the colour of crocodile meat.
I’ve eaten alligator meat, Gerard. It wasn’t bad. 🙂 Better than rattlesnake meat that has the consistency of a rubber band. –Curt
Curt, this must be the best blog post title ever! 😀 I can’t get the image of frogs legs dancing around in your mother’s frying pan … creepy indeed! How brilliant to learn to swim from watching your dogs, waiting until later for the more sophisticated strokes. In today’s world, there is such a fuss about swimming lessons, wearing a cap, medals, certificates. Much better to jump in, paddle and go into the imaginary exciting world of a pirate!😀
🙂 We had four things going for us, Annika, in terms of our outdoor adventures. One was availability, nature was outside our door, one was lax parents, one was a different era (before the media taught us to fear everything), and finally was our vivid imagination. We were pretty amused at the time by our mother’s squeamish reaction to the frog legs. But once they ceased their jumping ways, into the frypan they went and she ate them with the same enthusiasm we did. –Curt
Loved this description Curt. The whole piece has a dream like quality that had me exploring with you. What a childhood you had!
Thanks, Alison. Appreciated. Glad to have you along in my dream-like exploration of the Pond. –Curt
I knew you had some good ol’ boy in you! Down here (and also in places like Missouri and Oklahoma) e call it ‘noodling,’ and the wildlife pros aren’t much in favor, since some of the easiest fish to catch bare-handed are those on the nest. That said, there’s nothing quite like a noodling contest to get folks excited, especially if there’s beer around. It’s a great way for big boys to play little boy again — what’s not to like?
You’re right about over protective and paranoid parents. I well remember sitting on our back steps, whining, “There’s nothing to do.” At that point, Moms always said, “Well, go find something.” And we did.
You aren’t raised wild in the country without a little bit of good ol’ boy sticking to you Linda. Our ‘noodling’ never seemed to impact the number of catfish in the pond. Or so it seemed with the large schools of baby fish. Later I got into canoodling, By then, catching catfish by hand was a thing of the past. 🙂
Or… they might have said, “If you are bored, I have some chores for you to do.” That kept whining down to a minimum. I really can’t remember being bored as a kid, however. –Curt
Such free abandonment and joy in your childhood memories Curt. You truly were like huck finn. Every boys dream. boys are made of snails and tails and apparently frogs legs. Pretty resourceful and brazen even back in the day. I haven’t had them in years but I did like them when I did. Happy Friday💖❣️
Sometimes benign neglect is a good thing. We were free to wander to our hearts’ content, for the most part, when out of school. As long as we were home for dinner, which was always served precisely at 6:00.
And thanks. I did have a good Friday. And now I am having a good Saturday. Hope you are as well. 🙂
Good way to put it Curt. I wish I had that life and gave it to my kids but we tend to pass down what we know unfortunately. I was going to be the ” perfect parent”.. 🤣.. Well, we know how that workds out. Glad you’re weekend is going well💖❣️💖
Perfect isn’t part of my vocabulary. 🙂 I can live with good… or only slightly bad. Grin.
I can still bring up memories of Diamond Springs in my mind from the mid to late 70s. El Dorado county provided me my very first taste of ‘wilderness’. It was the answer to my prayers to (please) get me out of city life… I had tried a few (cities) and found them utterly lacking. You could almost call it an urbanphobia. There’s not been very much looking back ever since. I suppose it was all the beginning of my path to this little creekside heaven within a stone’s throw of the Pacific. How did I ever get this lucky?
So you could say it all started in Placerville…. 😉
“So you could say it all started in Placerville….” I like that, Gunta. My love the woods sure did. I can take urban in small doses, especially interesting urban. It’s suburban that drives me nuts. 🙂 –Curt
I suppose I included suburban… perhaps you’ve noticed that we prefer to camp places that are still to be found in the “middle of nowhere”… it’s the closest thing to your backpacking experience that I’ve managed in my lifetime. You, of course, were fortunate enough to grow up in an environment that included trees as tall as skyscrapers and frog legs. My formative years encompassed riding to school on trolley cars and elevated trains roaring by barely a block away. Serving as translator while my age was still in single digits for my grandmother who never did learn to speak English, though she was fluent in Latvian, German and Russian. Ahhhh… them good old days! 🇱🇻
Different childhoods for sure, Gunta. Mine didn’t include wilderness but there were lots of wide open spaces, especially from the perspective of an under ten-year-old. I went on my first ‘backpacking’ trip at 11 with the Boy Scouts. But I was 25 before the next one.
My ancestors, however, were mainly pioneers, always moving, always living on the edge of the wilderness. One was even a companion to Daniel Boone. It may be genetic with me. 🙂 –Curt