I could never cup my hands just right to catch tadpoles. The slippery suckers would weasel out at the cup of my hands. I must have tried to catch a million tadpoles when I was a kid, but every time it slipped out. Had I known then what I know now, I could have chalked it up to simple OCD for not wanting to really touch them but pretend I did like all the other kids. I used to do the same things with frogs, crawdads, and fish.
Once my cousin made me touch a frog, and although I never got a wart I kept washing my hands just in case. My mom used to tell me that frog’s pee gave you warts even though my cousin swore no frog ever peed on him, but he had the ugliest wart on his hand I ever had seen. It was a flesh colored bubble on his thumb that was as hard as a rock just like his head. I tended to think it was contagious so everytime he went to give me something I would run away from him, but for some reason he thought I liked to play tag.
I once spent an entire day sitting in the middle of a clover field. There I would sit, hours upon hours, with a large wooden salad bowl picking them one-by-one looking for four-leaf clovers. No one ever told me to watch what I ate when I was younger, and clovers tasted a little sour. When I got older I thought it was in the bean sprout family, so anytime we would go to Circus Circus in Reno, Nevada, I would pile the bean sprouts on my plate and eat them like a grown up.
Nowadays, my hands barely touch the organic side of life. Instead of tadpoles slipping through my hands, it’s money. I don’t find many four-leaf clovers anymore, but that doesn’t keep me from looking in clover patches.