Frog Eggs

What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.


— Stanley Kunitz, "Touch Me", in The Wild Braid, p. 95


April 2009

Yesterday while riding our bikes we came across a pond with frogs in it. Amidst the reeds were large clutches of frog eggs. We headed home, collected buckets and net, and headed back to the pond to collect some eggs.

For several years I've been wanting to hatch frog eggs or nurture tadpoles for a few weeks and then release into the wild. As a suburban child in the 1970s mid-Atlantic we would search religiously in the clear pools of water that formed in the orange clay after a rainstorm. We were looking for the tiny black tadpoles of toads to keep for a few weeks until they sprouted legs. So much of the wild was regarded as dangerous; the massive river a few miles away was polluted. Having the opportunity to really observe something pure, young, wild, and alive was a cherished experience.

After returning to the pond by car we collected the eggs and ample pondwater to fill the aquarium purchased a few weeks ago at Goodwill. When we got home, we placed the aquarium in a temperature-appropriate spot, poured in the pondwater, and very carefully transferred the eggs. We're raising our kids to respect all living things—no bug-killing, no keeping crabs in a thimbleful of water in the sun at the beach— a fact which prompted the lecture today about not poking the frog eggs with a stick. They are alive.

Last night we had dinner with another homeschooling family. We proudly shared our excitement at finally scoring some frog eggs. Well, it was quickly pointed out that what we did is now illegal in Maine, a point that would have been well-driven-home were I on the internet this year. Apparently, someone else like me posted a basic question to one of the homeschooling email lists about handling frog eggs, unleashing an email firestorm.

No more bragging about the frog eggs.