By Chris Mackowski
St. Bonaventure, NY – I knew autumn meant business when it chased the toad away.
Since midsummer, the toad had staked out space about midway down the length of our cobblestone sidewalk. Each evening, as dusk settled into night, he would make an appearance, and by eleven o'clock he'd be gone again.
He was as big as my fist, and we took to calling him Goliath. We'd be on the lookout for him any time we came in or out of the house. He would sit motionless, with the patience of a clump of dirt, as we passed by. On occasion, if he felt we passed too close, he'd take a hop toward the edge of the sidewalk and then resume his clumpishness.
On some evenings, we'd forgot to turn on the front porch lights, which kept the sidewalk immersed in darkness. Getting from the driveway to the house turned into a hold-your-breath, don't-step-on-the-toad exercise in tip-toeing. I would lead the way, straining to see the sidewalk in whatever moonlight we had, fearful of feeling squished toad underfoot.
"Why didn't I replant those stupid solar lights back where they belonged along the edge of the sidewalk?" I grumbled but it wasn't the lights that were stupid, of course. It was me.
Reaching the front door, I would scramble inside and throw the lightswitch. The rest of the family would file down the illuminated path, the toad nowhere in sight. Perhaps my clumsy movements had cared it away or, more likely, it had never been there in the first place.
I like to think of my place as an "amphibian-safe" zone. We have toads of various sizes on our sidewalk all the time, and I'm always rescuing little red newts from the driveway. For two weeks in the early spring, we can always count on having four or five peepers show up on any given night. The distinctive "X" on their backs marks the spot where they've plastered themselves to the vinyl siding by the front door.
But Goliath, because of his extraordinary size and constant presence, became a fixture. I had no idea where he made his home during the day. Perhaps at the base of the unruly lilac bush that sits near the lamp post in the front yard. Perhaps in the earth-hugging shrubs under the front-porch windows. Perhaps even way over by the split-rail fence, beneath one of the lowest-running crossbeams, only inches from the ground.
Wherever it was he hopped out from, we looked for him in the evenings and said hello to him as we passed.
But for the past few evenings, he's been gone.
I know nature can be a harsh place, so it's entirely possible that a skunk or a raccoon or even an owl snuck up on Goliath one night and gobbled him up as a snack. But somehow I don't think so. I think something else snuck up him. It snuck up on me, too.
After all, those first few specks of amber and orange seem so unobtrusive when they begin to appear on the hillsides. Before I knew it, those little flecks became flurries, and soon everything exploded with red and yellow and crimson and gold. The green just slowly faded away, lost in the cacophony of color.
Along the roadsides, the goldenrod has burst into full color and the sumac burns bright. In the fields beyond, withered forests of cornstalks stand like skeletons. On front porches, proud chrysanthemums adorn homes with robust bouquets of auburn, sienna, and scarlet.
I also see the man-made signs of autumn: signs that once said "Fresh corn" replaced by signs that now say "Pumpkins" and "Mums"; signs that advertise nightmare hayrides; signs that say "Go Bills!"; hand-lettered signs that point the way to Pumpkinville.
The nights have taken on a chill that can't be shaken off. The air no longer feels "brisk" it's downright chilly. Overhead, the half-full moon backlights the fluffy clouds with a spectral glow. Sometimes, it looks as though the night sky is afire with billowy white flames.
From a toad's point of view, a night sky like that might look apocalyptic. The chill in the air might be like ice in the bloodstream.
Whatever sign Goliath saw, he must've realized that it's time to settle in for the season, before his cold-blooded metabolism slows too much and it becomes too hard to find a soft, cozy spot for the winter. He doesn't mind sleeping through the snowball fights and sled rides. He won't care whether or not I shovel the sidewalk.
After all, he knows he won't be sitting there. He has given up his spot on the cobblestones. Autumn has chased him away.
Listener-Commentator Chris Mackowski is an associate professor at the School of Journalism and Mass Communication at St. Bonaventure University.
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