MEMORIES OF THE POND

Last fall I had a rare opportunity to take my grandson fishing at "The Pond." There is nothing extraordinary or spectacular about this small pond, it's a tranquil spring-fed pond nestled in a small wooded cove not far from the family farmhouse. Spectacular may not be the right word to describe it, but it is a magical pond that has been in our family for many generations.

After fishing for a short spell, my grandson's attention span started to fade and his sudden urge to explore became overpowering. For half an hour or more I contentedly watched as he scoured the area around the pond, investigated a few nooks and crannies, climbed several trees that God placed there for that reason, then wandered over to where I was placidly munching a peanut butter sandwich and sipping a cold soda pop.

"What makes this old pond so special grandpa?" He blurted out, setting his lanky young frame down on the soft grass next to me. "Dad talks about it all the time as if it is the greatest place on earth."

That simple and innocent question begin to flood my mind with wonderful memories and my aging heart was filled with fluttering joy for I had been waiting patiently for this very question.

"To begin with," I replied, "there's a huge catfish in this pond that has never been caught and it must be at least 150 years old."

With those few words I immediately knew I had captured his curiosity. For a long time he sat and watched me with undivided attention as I explained the wonders of, "The Pond."

"Over by that old stump sticking out in the pond is where your father asked your mother to marry him," I stated, warming up to my tale. "He chose that spot because it's where he also caught his first fish from this pond when he was four years old."

Swinging my head to the left I continued, "Over there is where your grandmother and I spent a lot of time before I finally got the gumption to ask her to marry me, and beneath that overhanging oak tree is where I caught my first fish when I was about your age."

My grandson Jacob was caught up in my tale like a fish on a line and my son Michael, having overheard the quiet conversation, wandered over to join us.

"Right out yonder," Michael stated, pointing mid way out into the pond, "is where your grandpa threw all his medals that he won from the Vietnam War."

With a shocked expression covering his face, my grandson loudly asked why?

"Everyone said I was a hero," I replied, "but I did not feel like a hero at the time because so many of my friends never came back home."

In an attempt to justify my actions, I pointed to another spot along the banks of the pond.

"Over there, beside the fence is where my father threw his war medals," I stated. "I was just trying to be like him I guess. He was in the big war, World War II. He served with the Navajo code talkers."

I could tell from the eager expression on Jacob's face that he was ready to go diving into the pond to look for the heroic medals that rested like hidden treasure on the muddy bottom. I didn't tell him we had later fished them out and they were now safely stored in my old war chest, for that would be another story best saved for when he was older.

"My grandpa told me that he planted that big old magnolia tree over on the south bank," I said, continuing my story. He said that grandmother Mary loved magnolias and he planted over a dozen of them but that tree is the only one that survived, probably because it got nourishment from the pond.

He also said that is where he caught his first fish from the pond and next to it is where he asked grandmother Mary to marry him. That was way back in 1907. Grandpa also said that if it wasn't for the fish in this pond, the family would have starved during the great depression. The pond and the fish in it are the only things that kept the family together."

"Wow!" Jacob blurted. "This old pond has been here that long?"

"Much longer than that," I replied. "My grandfather told me that his father, after serving in the United States Cavalry for twenty-seven years, returned home from the Indian wars and threw his old Henry repeating rifle and saber into the pond."

More glitter lit up my grandson's face as daring visions of Indian fighting, the wild west, and old rifles and weapons clouded his thoughts.

"Now my grandfather's grandfather used to raise tobacco and cotton on this place before the Civil War," I continued. "He left the farm in 1862 to fight with Robert E. Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia. He was badly wounded at the battle of Gettysburg and came back home in the fall of 1863."

"Did he throw his medals into the pond?" Jacob eagerly asked, looking at the calm waters as if he could spot the ancient Civil War relics.

"No Jacob," I replied. "They didn't hand out medals much in those days. My grandpa said that he was told that if it wasn't for the pond, the family would have starved until that war was over. Seems like soldiers from both sides, Yankees and Rebels, took most of the food from the local farmers leaving them with little to eat. The fish from this pond along with wild vegetables and local game was a daily staple that kept the family from starving."

"Did his daddy also fight in the war?" Jacob asked. "Seems like everyone in our family fought in some war or other."

"No, his father did not fight in the Civil War," I replied, "but he was in the Army. He was a cavalry soldier who escorted the local Native Americans from this area when the white man took over the land. They called it, "The Trail of Tears," because many Native Americans died.

The Indians called your many times great grandfather, "The soldier who was good to us." According to my grandpa, he met an Indian princess on the trip and brought her back to this place. They were married and built a small cabin on the knoll on the other side of the pond. You can see where it was by that depression over on the hillside."

"What about the 150 year old catfish?" Jacob asked, reminding me of how I began the story.

"Seems as if our first ancestor to own this pond, the one who was good to the Indians, tried to catch a great big catfish throughout his life, but it kept getting away," I answered. "Each person after that has hooked the big fish, including me and your dad, but no one has caught it yet. The granddaddy of all catfish is still out there in the pond somewhere, grinning back at us with a knowing smile and challenging us to catch him."

"Wow!" Jacob blurted again, quickly jumping up from the grass. "I'm gonna catch him grandpa," he yelled, heading back to where he had left his rod and reel, a set look of determination and anticipation on his face.
"You just did the same thing that grandpa did to me," my son Michael stated, looking at me with a big grin. "That impossible catfish story has been around for a few years hasn't it?"

"There's always a big fish somewhere that needs to be caught," I replied. "It's not the catching of the fish that counts of course, but the wonderful family history and memories this pond has given to our family. Many tears have fed this pond, both tears of sadness and tears of joy, and the pond has echoed shouts of laughter as well as moans of anguish. Houses and people come and go, but "The Pond" abides."

"You might say each generation has never caught that fish but passed it on to the next. You will tell your grandson, and Jacob will tell his, and this pond will be here waiting for the next glossy eyed youngster, and the next, and the next...