I have a non-functioning pool in my backyard here in Texas. I keep it covered year round. Every time it rains toads appear through a wormhole to party with each other. It’s a race between how fast I can get the water pumped off versus how fast they can croak out WhatsApp messages to the orgy. If I’m too late, I’ve got a week of wearing earplugs to sleep to drown out the bass notes of Club Freaky Toad. It’s either that or repeat the night I stomped around my backyard with my headlamp catching them and throwing them like baseballs over the back fence, but I’m not sure I want to explain that behavior to my neighborhood association or to g-d. 

The spring of ‘77, the year after we moved into the house on Braintree Street, my parents had to deal with uncovering a winter prepped pool for the first time. In New York the pool cover stayed in place through Memorial Day, accumulating rain and leaves. Despite their best efforts, I can see one corner of the cover slipping into the water contaminating everything with a season’s worth of detritus and tadpoles. I’m pretty sure I can still see their faces frozen in horror as they watched the escape into the pool. 

Soon after I had my first opportunity to observe the life cycle of toads as the pool gradually passed from tadpole nursery through baby toad daycare to concert venue for opera toads. The pool deck was biblical for a while.