Students and Froggies - Who Learned More?

Cute. Or slimy. You decide.

Twenty Froggies

Twenty froggies went to school
Down beside a rushy pool,
Twenty little coats of green,
Twenty vests all white and clean.

"We must be in time," said they.
"First we study, then we play.
That is how we keep the rule,
When we froggies go to school."

Master Bull-frog, brave and stern,
Called his classes in their turn,
Taught them how to nobly strive,
Also how to leap and dive.

Taught them how to dodge a blow,
From the sticks that bad boys throw.
Twenty froggies grew up fast
Bull-frogs they became at last.

Polished in a high degree,
As each froggie ought to be.
Now they sit on other logs, 
Teaching other little frogs.
                                   George Cooper

I realize that this sounds like a children's poem.

Because it is.

But I didn't learn it until grade twelve . . .

Biology class.

The real one.

Not the one the boys all talk about.

Moving on . . .

We were in the 'dissection' part of our school year.

The part that I found most fascinating.

But that many of the other girls . . . didn't.

We were scheduled, as part of the class, to walk down to the 'Fish Pond' and catch our own frogs.

Great!

Field trip!

But first, our teacher, Mr. Meldrum, handed each of us a copy of the aforementioned (good word, right?) poem.

We thought it was cute.

And clever.

And easily folded into paper planes.

Okay, not everyone thought it was as cute as I did.

Philistines!

Then we set out.

The walk down was enjoyable.

Beautiful late-spring day. Warm sun.

Cute boys.

Okay, I know what I said about biology class.

And boys.

But let's face it. We were all thinking about 'Biology'.

Right?

So . . . walking . . . and boys.

It didn't take long for us to reach the pond.

We spread out and began to pounce on the dozens of frogs who made the peaceful waters their home.

Well, most of us did. There were the inevitable few who couldn't bear to touch the 'slimy' (their word) little things.

Those of us who were less squeamish filled in.

So to speak.

In no time, we had collected enough of the little squirming bodies to have a frog each.

One strong lad (yes, I meant to use the word 'lad') was elected to carry the precious bucket.

The rest of us enjoyed the short walk back.

Then, to work.

We spent the rest of the morning performing various operations on our hapless little victims.

Fortunately, our teacher knew very well what he was doing and instructed us in the proper methods of 'painless' observation.

It was an interesting morning.

And far too short.

When it was done, I was the only student who took the poem home.

Or so I thought.

Some months later, when our school yearbook was handed out, I realized that other students in my class were actually paying attention.

Closer attention, even, than I was.

There, in the 'Last Will and Testament' page, beside one young man's name, were the words: "Being of sound mind and beautiful body, leaves said body to be dissected by twenty froggies who go to school."

Payback.

And a fitting tribute.

Another Fire

Hot times in the Old Town. Milk River

6:45 am.
When most of the world still sleeps, or is just beginning to stir, the ranching families of Southern Alberta are already up and out.
Stock to feed, cows to milk.
Diving into the day’s first chores with unfettered enthusiasm, a smile - brought by the pure joy of work most satisfying - firmly fixed on weather-beaten faces.
Not.
“Spring!” Dad’s first words of the day, spoken with that ‘unfettered enthusiasm’ previously mentioned. There he would be, the light from the hall behind him making him into the shadowy cut-out of some avenging God of mischief, dressed in a white terry-cloth bathrobe, sent to ruin the final minutes of a good night’s sleep.
“Spring!” he would say again, in case we didn’t hear it the first time.
Then, in a puff of smoke, he would disappear. Evil summons completed.
Actually, I just made up that ‘puff of smoke bit’.
The evil summons?
Truth.
This morning began like any other.
A new spring sun just peeping over the horizon filling the clear, blue sky with breathtaking slices of pink and orange.
We humans blissfully ignorant.
Dad’s unfailingly cheerful, completely irritating voice calling happily down the stairs.
The summoned moaning and complaining and beginning to twitch in their beds.
The call came again.
The summoned were throwing off the heavy bonds of sleep by degrees.
Some were actually finding their voices. “Yeah, yeah.”
And yet a third time.
The responses growing equally louder and more understandable, “Yeah, yeah!”
And then the final call.
The one sure to either freeze the faithful in their beds, or galvanize them into movement.
“The elevators are on fire!”
I should mention here that the town of Milk River’s elevators stood directly behind us, across our pasture. A short few hundred yards away.
Within toasting distance.
The mere thought of them engulfed in flames struck terror into the hearts of every member of the Stringam family.
Certainly it did that day.
“Yeah, Dad, good one!” A pause. Then, “Dad’ll say anything to get us up!” Laughter.
Perhaps I was a bit more trusting than my brothers.
Perhaps the idea of something exciting happening in our sleepy little town was enough to draw me from my bed.
Whichever.
I scurried into my parent’s room, bounded across their bed and joined my mother at the window.
The entire horizon was a blaze of light.
Two of the six elevators were already burning and, as we watched, a third began to smoke.
Dad was out on the deck, his face a mixture of disbelief, excitement and dismay.
It was an interesting face.
By this time, our cries of . . . disbelief, excitement and dismay . . . had finally drawn my brothers to their window.
“Holy Smoke!”
Truer words were never spoken.
For a moment, fear washed over me.
Were we in any danger from the flames? Those elevators were awfully close.
Dad was quick to reassure.
The wind was favourable for us, pushing the fire, and its attendant sparks to the South, away from the Stringams.
Towards the Garbers, actually. And their barn.
But that is another story.
Chores were given a lick and a promise.
School was . . . poorly attended.
The time was spent watching the fire.
And the fire-fighters.
The entire population of town stood across the street, eyes locked on the incredible sight.
I found my Mom there and went to stand beside her.
“Good thing it’s spring,” I told her. “Harvest hasn’t started.”
My ignorance of the whole ‘grain storage’ thing was woeful.
“They’re right full of grain!” my Mom exclaimed.
As though to prove her statement, a long split appeared in one corner of the elevator nearest us. Followed by a golden stream.
Pieces of flaming elevator began to rain down.
The crowd gasped and stepped backwards.
Our Sherriff tried his best to keep us away.
To keep us safe.
Even going so far as to order all of the kids back to school.
We scampered to obey.
Not.
He couldn’t have driven us away with a stick.
Maybe if he had pulled his gun . . . no not even then.
The elevators burned for days.
When the glow was finally out, the ruined grain was raked into piles and sold for a pittance, for cattle feed or whatever.
But to those of us who witnessed it, the fire would never be extinguished.
Even after the smell of roasting wood and grain finally washed away.
Even after new, modern elevators were built.
All one would have to say was, “Remember the elevator fire?” and a whole troop of memories would come crowding.
It was the most excitement our town has ever had. Before or since.
Okay, so Milk ‘Thrill Central’ River wasn't our town’s name.

And the Stringams were back to hearing, “Spring!” every morning.
Once in a while, Dad would try to inject a little excitement into the day by shouting, “The elevators are on fire!”
But he was never believed.
Kind of like that first time.