When you are a young boy in a small, rural farming community, it is pretty hard to become bored. There is always some new adventure, some new activity to while away the time. All a boy has to do is look around.
Mike Chamberlain could always come up with something different when it came to fun. He's the guy who introduced me to shortwave radio back in the late 1950s. I went to his house and listened to the old radio set he had there, spinning the dial until the words or music from some new, exotic, and far-away radio station filled the room with sound. The ever-present crackle of static and the high-pitched whine added to the mysticism of the moment, as the glowing vacuum tubes radiate heat and light.
We became shortwave monitors, listening to the broadcasts from various radio stations around the world, and reporting back to them via postcard about the strength and reliability of their radio signals. My favorite station was Radio Berne, broadcast from Berne, Switzerland. When I purchased my own shortwave radio at an estate sale, and sat it in its place of prominence in my bedroom, I became a nightly follower of the classical musical programs which aired my way from Switzerland. I dutifully listened, filled out my report postcards, and mailed them off to far-away Switzerland. One Sunday night I nearly broke my neck as I tumbled down the stairs, rushing to tell Mom that Radio Berne was then broadcasting my request for George Gershwin's "Rhapsody In Blue" over the airwaves. What a thrill to hear the broadcaster mention my name, all the way from Switzerland!
Mike and I - both Boy Scouts at the time - signed up as "licensed" shortwave radio monitors. We sent off for our official certificates, and waited impatiently for their arrival and our "legality." When they finally came in the mail, the beautifully printed certificates were displayed on our walls. I became WPE8CEO, and Mike became WPE8CEP...sequential.
When the CB radio craze exploded upon America in the 1960s, Mike was the first of our circle of friends to become actively involved. He lit the fire under me, and got me likewise involved. His KHI6339 call sign, as licensed by the FCC, was soon matched by my own KHI6348. We spent a long, long time playing with citizen's band radio over the coming years.
Mike expanded his radio interests to shortwave transmitting. He learned the Morse Code so he could send the dot-dash messages to far corners of the country. As the years passed, he moved up to voice shortwave, and has remained an active member of the national shortwave community for a long, long time. The old house on Sycamore Street still echos with the sounds of "Hello, good buddy!" and similar exclamations on a daily basis. Don't get in Mike's way when it's time to head for home and another session with his shortwave pals!
One day when I went to call on Mike, he was busy in the large garage and workshed which sat at the back edge of the property. He had taken an old broomstick and sawed off the broom portion. He had then taken three long nails, or "spikes," and cut off the heads. Working carefully, he then drilled holes in the broomstick, carefully wedged in the spikes - sharpened edges pointing outward - and secured them in some fashion (the exact method escapes me after all of these years), and had, what he identified, as a "frog gig." Not familiar with the term, I asked him what he intended to do with the vicious looking weapon. "Goin' frog-gigging tonight when it gets dark," was his response. Sounded like fun, and something which I might enjoy doing, so I asked him if I could likewise construct a "frog gig." "Yep" was his short, clipped reply. So, I soon found myself looking for a broomstick, spikes and whatever to complete the project.
The task completed, we found something else to do to entertain us until nightfall, which was - Mike assured me - the best time to go frog-gigging.
By the first signs of darkness, I was back at Mike's house, frog-gig and flashlight in hand. Lawrence Burroughs had joined us by this time, willing to use a flashlight to spot for us, but not willing to "gig" one of the unsuspecting frogs. The three of us made our way across the railroad tracks which abutted Mike's property, and slowly inched our way down the steep bank to Spain Creek. There were tall weeds and bushes, the perfect hiding place for those bullfrogs we could hear croaking around us. As we got closer to the water, however, the croaking stopped suddenly. All was silent except for the occasion chirping of a cricket. Lawrence moved the ray of light slowly around the area, hoping to catch the reflection of a frog's eyes in the beam. Mike and I stood ready, in our best jungle hunter stances, to impale the target.
Why I ever decided to go "frog-gigging" I do not know. Perhaps it was the thought of doing something new and different. Perhaps it was the impending challenge of the hunt. Perhaps it was some ancient, mystic hunting compulsion in my modern-day brain. At any rate, I suddenly realized that I was standing on the creek bank, evil-looking weapon in hand, awaiting the observation of my prey. I was having second thoughts, and not really certain that I could "gig" a frog when the time came to do so. After all, I was sure there would be blood even if the gathering darkness would make it difficult to see.
Lawrence's efforts were fruitful. The beam from his flashlight caught the eyes of a large bullfrog, hankered down in the water near where Mike was standing. Like a flash from Neptune's trident, Mike speared the frog mid-body, a croak exiting its mouth as he raised his gig up to view his trophy. Lawrence began a nervous laughter as he shined the light on the prize. I stared at the scene in a mixed state of mind as Mike pulled the frog from the frog-gig and held it in his hand. Lawrence and I voiced kudos for his effort as he put the frog into a bag which he had brought for that purpose. "Nothin' like frog legs to eat!" Mike exclaimed as he resumed his hunter stance.
I didn't gig any frogs that night. I tried, but my own trident failed to connect with one of the amphibian bodies. My aim was off, for one reason or another. Perhaps I subconsciously decided not to do-in one of the luckless creatures. Besides, I was certain that I would not enjoy the taste of frog legs.
I never went frog-gigging after that night, my weapon doomed to dust and rust as it sat on one of the tool benches in Mike's workshop-garage over the years. I found other activities to keep me busy during those growing-up years which were not at the expense of some bewildered frog.
Like when I took up squirrel hunting.
