By Michael Patrick O’Brien–
Although I like to write too, I have only a few fleeting connections with the great American journalist and humorist Samuel Langhorne Clemens, aka Mark Twain.
I have read some of his books…Tom Sawyer is a favorite.
Like Twain, I have been to Calaveras County, California, venue for the famous short story that launched Twain’s literary career in November 1865—The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.
And I do have a good frog story.
Calaveras County is nestled in the eastern part of central California, north of Yosemite and the Stanislaus National Forest. We went there about twenty years ago for a good friend’s wedding. Among our lovely memories is taking our small children to visit the giant sequoias that grow in nearby Calaveras Big Trees state park.
During our visit, we also saw several local tributes to Twain’s fictional frog. The amphibian was the prized possession of Jim Smiley, a mining camp gambler who liked to boast and bet that his croaker could out jump any other in the county. Given a chance, I’d take that bet and invite Smiley’s toad to challenge the frogs from where I grew up in Northern Utah.
Utah is an arid state, in many ways an irrigated desert, but with some pretty interesting frogs. I know this because of the hard research work of others, but also because I collected some when I was a boy.
We lived in rented military housing on Hill Air Force Base, near the small town of Clearfield, in Davis County of Northern Utah, and all in the shadows of the front side of the Wasatch Mountains. Because the west end of our housing complex abutted against an irrigation canal and a small wetland, some of the other local residents were frogs.
As explained in Monastery Mornings, my 2021 memoir about those boyhood days, I was an encyclopedia nerd. I spent many happy hours poring over the enlightening and informative tomes, all in alphabetical-order. Yet, I also went outside a lot, and spent time playing in and exploring my external environs.
There I encountered real frogs. Not often, mind you. Our amphibious neighbors typically kept to themselves. Every once in a while, however, they hopped over for a visit. When they did, I pounced too.
One late summer day when I was about seven, I met an American Bullfrog in our yard. According to frog experts, the gray/green brown-spotted American Bullfrog (Rana catesbeianus) that lives in Utah can grow up to 8 inches and weight over a pound.
My visitor was not that large, but still was a beauty. I watched it for a few moments before I chased it down, snatched it up, and cupped it in my hands.
A nursery rhyme my mother often had told me described boys as made of “snakes and snails and puppy dogs’ tails.” She easily could have included slimy frogs in the mix, for I was thrilled to hold one. I decided to show Mom.
I raced around the side of our single story duplex house, plowed through the unlocked front door, and stumbled into our living room. Mom was relaxing in an easy chair. It was a warm summer day and we did not have central air. Just to Mom’s right sat a square-boxed floor fan, measuring about three feet long on each side. It purred quietly.
Mom was chatting with friends. I probably should not have barged in, but I had big news to share. I stood in front of her, about 4 feet away, hands in front of me concealing my “gift.”
I announced, “Look, mommy!” Ever kind and patient notwithstanding my interruption, she glanced my way, smiled, and said, “What is it?”
To understand what happened next, you first must know that my mother was not a squeamish woman. She regularly played in the yard with us, held worms and insects we brought her as tokens of our affection, and was not afraid to get her hands dirty. Yet, those were orchestrated activities with plenty of advance notice. Such was not the case, of course, when I showed her my newfound frog.
I opened my hands. My little captive sensed his big chance at freedom. The moment I uncupped, the American Bullfrog leaped from my hand, soared across the room legs fully extended, and landed splat in the middle of my mother’s chest.
Mom was silent for a moment, probably due to shock, but that quiet soon gave way to what might best be described as the panicked shriek of a banshee. Fueled by some primal force, my mother simultaneously launched herself out of the chair, swept the frog away, and hurdled the nearby floor fan in a single bound. She even stuck the landing…about four feet away.
Oblivious to my mother’s post-traumatic adrenalized eyes and gasping breath, I retrieved the frog, awestruck by its remarkable speed and athletic agility. I trotted back outside, leaving others to sort out the chaotic scene I had just unleashed in our living room.
Years later, visiting some of the same sites Mark Twain saw in California’s Calaveras County, I remembered my own flying frog. I considered, for the first time, that it probably could have been a contender in the annual amphibian leaping contest now held each May to honor Twain’s famous short story.
Unlike my oblivious boyhood days, however, this time I also knew I had not fully appreciated the most significant storyline from that toady adventure of several years ago. Yes, my jumping frog of Davis County was amazing, but how about that Celebrated Jumping Mother of Northern Utah? Now that…that would be something to write about!
*Mike O’Brien (author website here) is a writer and attorney living in Salt Lake City, Utah. His book Monastery Mornings (found here), about growing up with the monks at the old Trappist monastery in Huntsville, Utah, was published by Paraclete Press (more information here) in August 2021.
