THE FROG JUMP

Back in '65 (1965) I was blessed to attend the frog jump in Angel's Camp, with Sis, my folks, and my grandparents. We went in our '56 Chevy Bel air station wagon. Grandad's ancestors had arrived in Massachusetts Bay, back in 1636. Grandad was mighty proud of his country and his heritage. His family had arrived in the gold fields of California during the goldrush. Granddad, heritage, and history were synonymous. There was standing room only around the platform where the competition was taking place. They'd put a frog in the middle of the circle and his efforts were judged by how far he could go in three hops. Most didn't make it from the circle. Some just squatted, dumbstruck and never jumped. One little girl had entered a big, ol' frog, big as a platter! It was all she could do to carry him squirmin', out to the middle of the circle. He plopped down, rubbed his eyes, and peered off into space. The little child stooped down and gave him a good talkin' to, and then she stepped behind him. That ol' frog's eyes just oozed sagacity, as though ol' Mark Twain hisself was a peerin' out. A hush fell over the crowd. A moment passed. That little child stomped her foot within about an inch of that hoary, ol' frogs' bony backside, and he launched! His first jump took him clean out of the circle! With his second jump he cleared the crowd! And with his third effort he took to the sky like he'd just been swatted by Babe Ruth hisself, until he was no more than just a tiny speck, high in the sky over Angel's Camp. Some say that ol' frog ain't come down yet. Some say he caught the tail of Halley's comet.

SC