The Pond

The pond was an old gravel pit at the back of my grandfather's farm. In the summer, it was a place that we would spend many hours with fishing pole in hand. I don't remember a time we didn't go fishing at the pond. An old wrecked boat sat at the end of the pond and a downed tree at the other. Dad said that he had no idea how deep the small pond was but that it was extremely deep. It must have been because the water was almost black in the middle. Dragon flies would sit on the end of my pole and once in awhile, a large bass would flop in the middle. I never could catch one of those big fish, but Dad swore there were in there. Sometimes Dad would go to work the abutting  field planting me with pole in hand at the pond. I would sit there for hours waiting for something to happen on the end of my line.

In the winter, the pond became our ice skating rink. Dad would go to Troy to pick up worn out hockey sticks and pucks previously used by their hockey team. Neighbor kids would pick up sticks and try to stay upright long enough to whack the puck. Teenagers helped we little ones up and parents whirled around gracefully showing us all up. I remember when Bill Stager got injured when someone fell and a skate blade separated the top of his nose giving him a great scar that made him look like a prize fighter. It was cold outside but none of us felt it.

I learned patience at that pond. And, I learned lessons from my father. He pointed out birds and other occasional visitors that seemed to not know of our prescence as we fished on the bank. I learned about shag bark hickory and oak trees. About seeds and pods. I learned to hook a worm and to watch a bobber, a task of which I never seemed to tire. I had one on one time with my dad.

I miss my old cane pole. I miss my new figure skates. Most of all, I miss the quiet moments by the pond.