I was a collector as a kid. Probably everybody was. I had coins, seashells, rocks, stickers, Agatha Christie mystery books, stuffed animals, porcelain glass miniature animals, and caterpillars, worms, and frogs.

On stormy days in late springtime and early summer, the skies grew dark and ominous, and soon sheets of rain would pour from the sky. I'd lean up against the living room window, my dirty hands smudging and my hot breath fogging up the glass. The brown wooden panes would partially block my view, but I could see across the street to the deep grassy pit that connected all the backyards of the houses in the circle. When it rained all day, a pond sprang up in this pit, but only for a few hours. My best friend Barbara and I ran around in circles, chasing each other, splashing our sisters, and then sinking into the buttery grass that lie beneath the fresh pool of water. We lay on our stomachs and kicked up our feet, pretending to be mermaids.

When the rain passed and evening came, the pool slowly seeped into the ground and into the air around us, creating misty, humid clouds that dripped on our cheeks as we walked through them. We hiked out of the pit, soaking, and watch the sun dry up the black tar driveways. It was time for worm-hunting.

Nightcrawlers littered the ground. I ran to the garage and got my Folger's coffee can. I had carefully lined the can with dark, Minnesota humus from our backyard, and interspersed soft newspaper shreds. My dad told me the worms liked it that way.

I peeled the worms out of the cement rain gutters in the street and put them in the can. We used sticks and rocks to create jogs in the water so passerby worms would be held up as well. I didn't want to miss an opportunity to add to my collection.

We collected the frogs out of the basement window wells after the same storms. I had a Kemp's ice cream bucket to keep the frogs in. The green cursive letters that said Mint Chocolate Chip, my favorite flavor, were worn and peeling off, but the rusted wire handle still worked. I'd grab my bucket and fill it with some warm water, usually whatever was still pouring out of the drains on the house. I set a rock and some branches in the bucket, and punched holes in the lid with a sharp stick so the frogs could breathe. Then I'd crawl down into the window well to retrieve trapped frogs.

"Do ya see any?" Barb would ask, leaning over into the well.

"Not yet," I'd say. As I carefully stepped in the puddles in the well, I'd be sure to scare a frog, and as soon as he jumped, I'd take note of where he was so I could grab him for my collection.

"There's one!" I'd yell. Then I would slowly lean down, making sure my shadow didn't scare him to make him jump again, and within seconds I would have him in my hand. Some of them were squirmy, some of them were slimy, and some of them we thought might even be toads because they were so big and had lots of large hard bumps on their backs and filmy big eyes. Our other theory was that those were just the old ones.

Barb held down the bucket and I gently placed my prize inside. If we found a few, the next plan would be, of course, some frog leaping contests. I don't think we understood what to do with the frogs very well, though, because not only would they not jump, they would not eat or even move after a while. We'd keep poking them in the back, or gently lifting their legs in mock, folded jumping movements, but to no avail. We just were not able to figure them out.

My last frog collection was a disaster. I put some in a bucket one afternoon as we were packing the car to go up north, and I put the lid on the bucket and then jumped in the car and forgot about them.

When we got back two weeks later, the bucket (no holes in the lid this time) was steamed up on the sides, and when I opened it, the rank smell made me gag. I saw the remnants of my three frogs floating on the top of the water, completely flat and dehydrated. I was mortified. I gave up frog-collecting after that.

Caterpillars were prizes from the neighbor's garden. While we were sneaking through her rows of corn, picking all the sweet, fresh peapods we could find and eating them, we'd lean down and rifle through the spinach. Under the broad, dark leaves, we would find the greatest treasure of all: the woolly brown and black striped caterpillar.

Where there was one, we'd find more. You could run your finger gently along their backs, the fuzz pricking against your fingers. If you were careful, the caterpillar would walk across your hand, leaving a trail of brown poop along the way. It felt like your skin was crawling, in a tickly way.

The caterpillars lived in cardboard boxes, complete with furnishings such as short branches with leaves, rocks, and grass. We figured out that they liked to eat marigolds. In fact, they would not eat anything else, as far as we could tell. After we'd depleted my mother's garden of all her marigolds, we started to raid the elderly lady's garden on the other side of my yard.

We waited until dusk, because she sat at the kitchen table all day, looking out at the bike path that ran alongside her coveted marigolds. When dinnertime came, we saw her get up and figured she was busy in the kitchen. Barb and I walked by the flowers that lined the path casually, grabbing the heads of the marigolds and putting them into our pockets.

All seemed well until somehow, my mother found out. She made me march over to Mrs. Kennedy's house, knock on her door, and apologize for stealing her marigolds. Barb sat in her front yard and watched me, laughing, while I stammered out an apology with my crimson cheeks burning. Barb never had to say sorry, because her mom was at work.

That was the end of the caterpillar collecting.

Back