COLUMBIA DAILY TRIBUNE (Missouri) 17 March 06 Average garden toads can be quite charming (Janice Wiese-Fales)
Before deciding to call my graphic design and writing endeavors "Fertile Mind," I contemplated naming those freelance ventures "Blinking Toad." I love the way toads sit quietly contemplating the world and the gardener nearby, occasionally blinking wisely as they serenely reign over their surroundings. A friend pointed out that when people think of toads they often think of warts - a total myth. I had the image of the toad’s magical transformation in mind. One kiss, and something small and warty turns into a dream come true.
I always associate the lumpy little amphibian with the wonderful scent of the first-disturbed dirt of the gardening season. Invariably as I pull weeds and clear beds this time of year, I unearth a few toads. Winter-sluggish and skinny, they peer up at me from their hibernation holes winking their golden eyes. They are hungry and ready to lend a tongue to control my garden’s insect populations - but only after finding a pool of water and a mate with which to procreate.
It’s amazing to me that the little cold-blooded croakers live through the winter, just beneath the remnants of summer’s gardens, apparently freezing solid in some cases. In 1865, the Stockton and Hartlepool Mercury, a British newspaper, reported that workmen had discovered a live toad buried 25 feet deep in solid rock. In the early 19th century, when digging was done by hand, such reports were not uncommon.
But then what else would you expect from a creature with such a remarkably adapted life cycle? Toads begin life in long chains of eggs in the water before hatching into tadpoles with gills, tails and an appetite for aquatic plants. Over a few months, the little swimmers loose their tails and develop legs and lungs to leave the water in search of meat - worms and bugs. I wonder whether during their froglet stage there are days when they eat both a salad and an entree?
Missouri is home to a number of toad species, though Bufo Americanus, or the American toad, is the most common. In general, toads are nocturnal, hiding out during the day and roaming for meals at night. They have shorter back legs than frogs and don’t leap but rather hop, or walk, to get around. Though often unable to out-distance predators, toads can secrete a toxic substance from their skin that makes them an unpalatable and, in some cases, deadly meal.
Recently, scientists have reported an alarming decline in amphibian populations worldwide. The World Conservation Union’s recent Global Amphibian Assessment concluded that a third of the worlds’ 5,742 known species are threatened by extinction.
Of the amphibian populations that have been closely monitored, one in 10 is already extinct.
Besides the spread of fatal diseases, there is much speculation as to the source of the phenomenon. Rapid climate change, chemical contaminants, an increase in ultraviolet radiation and the 50 percent reduction in the world’s fresh-water habitats over the past 35 years might all play a role in this alarming occurrence.
I can’t imagine a spring evening outdoors without the surround-sound of their varied mating calls. I’ve made my yard as amphibian-friendly as possible, with a little pond and a lack of pesticides. I’ve spied three princes so far this spring.
In addition to the pond-to-palace fairy tales about them, a long history of myth and tradition surrounds toads. In China, the "man in the moon" is the "toad in the moon." Think about it next time you look at big light in the night.
For centuries, potions and folk remedies have been concocted from the body parts of toads. Given that toad parts can be poisonous, some of them were surely worse than the malady.
In the Middle Ages, the devil’s coat of arms displayed three toads, and the harmless creatures were also linked to witches and witchcraft. A bubbling cauldron of snakes and amphibians, supposedly brewed by witches to control the weather, was called "toad soup."
I occasionally prepared what we call "toad in a blanket" for my sons’ breakfast when they were young. I’d cut a hole in a piece of bread with a cookie cutter, lay it a skillet and fry an egg in the hole, just a my mother did for me.
Many a real toad found its way into those two boys’ catch-and-release program over the years, and one of those events is a favorite memory for me.
In the spring of 1993, we’d drive the gravel road behind our house to Clarks Chapel on the Missouri River bluff to view the flooded river bottoms and the roaring monster of water below. It was an awe-inspiring and humbling experience to stand there with others feeling a sense of helplessness and loss.
With so much rain, frogs and toads were in extravagant abundance that spring, and one drizzly evening at our lookout, there were hundreds of them making their way up from the river. The boys, 4 and 3 years old at the time, began excitedly scooping them up, putting them in pouches they made with the fronts of their T-shirts. In a short time, their shirts were bulging, and they were giggling uncontrollably, as were the previously heavy-hearted, grim-faced flood watchers.
Before I made them free their catch, I snapped a picture of the two grinning, wiggling kiddos holding out their shirts, filled with blinking toads. I still laugh out loud every time I look at that photo.
Average garden toads can be quite charming