The Pond

(again from a work in progress, The Beaver Diaries)

I could never find the headwaters of the flow that feeds the pond. A large steel pipe protrudes from the bank of the concession road, disgorging its contents. In spring the flow is an angry rush that comes shooting out of the pipe but by midsummer it is reduced to a lazy stream. I suppose it drains the fields of the vegetable farm to the north, but I could discover no trace of it.

From the road the land drops steeply into the ravine, and the water falls from the tube the last 5 feet into a splash hole. From there it heads south, carving a meandering course through the soft alluvial sediment held together by tall grass and shrubs. Eighty feet in, it turns east through a hedge of pines to come upon the access lane from the side. A quick thaw, a sudden downpour adding to the runoff from the hillsides, dramatically increases the volume and energy of the creek that rushes head on at the access lane. Brown with silt, the swollen stream tries to squeeze through the two pipes buried under the laneway, but at times the overflow crests the bank and floods the road surface. On the other side, it quickly descends a good ten feet to join up with the pond an easy stone’s throw further on.

The rush gentles, and like a cloud, the silt spreads through the becalmed volume of standing water. 90 feet on the far side, the water finds a spillway over an earthen dam and tumbles 10 more feet, to lose itself under the tangle of branches and roots of water-loving shrubs. Heading due east still, it traverses the short distance to cross under the link wire fence to empty into an even larger artificial lake on the neighbouring property.

Actually, the pond was not always there. When my parents bought the 50 acres back in the late 70’s, all this was a swamp of reed infested soft muck, but no open water. It would flood with the season and drain to feed the lake next door.

My father had the middle of this wetness dredged, uncovering a number of springs below that doubled the inflow. At its largest, the resulting pond extended about 90 feet with maybe 25 at its widest. On the far end an earth dam held the water captive, the overflow finding its way over it to collect 10 feet below and continue eastward.

In its infancy, the pond was 14 feet at the deep end, the water refreshingly cool and clear, excellent for swimming. I spent many hours drifting about wedged into a truck inner tube, just tracking the clouds above, afterward sunning myself in the lush grass of the bank.

With rains and floods over the many years, the pond gradually silted up, with a deposit of pure clay washed out of the surrounding soil. Treading a way through this was sheer sensual pleasure, of silky smoothness caressing one’s flesh. During one bush party thrown by renters (of the cottage) I came across a couple making love, half in, half out of the water, plastered by this clay. I quietly withdrew but I always wondered afterward how that enhanced the experience.

With time the whole ecosystem transformed itself. Now sedge, water lilies and pond weed proliferate in the shallow end, overlooked by tall cane that wedged itself into the soft muck, giving shelter to varieties of frogs and aquatic insects. Tadpoles swim confidently among the stalks, silver sides of minnows flash as they dart away from any shadow and long-legged water bugs skim on the surface. A tribe of frogs moved in, and loudly advertise their presence.

In the dry season, when the water recedes a little, a strip of mud is uncovered, in which all the visitors leave their calling cards. The hoof prints of deer sink deep into the black muck when they drink in the morning; racoons leave their paw prints, as do possums, squirrels, rabbits, chipmunks and an occasional muskrat just passing through. Like hieroglyphs, the claw marks of birds are everywhere: webbed for the more aquatic, sharp and deep for the ones used to clasping branches and twigs. A rare sighting are the peculiar s-marks of a snake winding its way across the moist flat. But the high summer sun soon bakes the exposed mud into a hard crust that cracks as it shrinks.

Most times, the air is filled with swarms of insects. Mosquitoes, midges, dragonflies, damselflies, deerflies and the seasonal mayflies. Birds swoop into the clouds of them. Butterflies give a flash of colour, opening and closing their wings in display. Bees visit the plants, bumblebees drone about loudly. The sharp buzz of a dragonfly fades in and out. An army of grasshoppers pop in and out of the sweet grass and the wild rye, bouncing off the unwary visitor trying to push through the waist high tangle. Preying mantises cling to stalks, sharp toothed bugs chew on the broad leaves. Spider webs span twigs and stalks, the host patiently awaiting visitors. A ladybug climbs to the top. Aphids scurry about and beetles browse the bark of a solitary elm.

On higher elevations, ant hill mounds raise themselves amidst the grass and wild strawberries. Moss and lichen cling to the few rocks poking through the soil. Animal trails cut through the vegetation, and matted down grass shows where deer have spent the night. A fox family dug a den into the hillside, unearthing a weep of yellow soil. The hole is abandoned now, though field rats move in from time to time.

From somewhere a willow mysteriously found a home on one bank and grew to majestic size, trailing its switches in the water below. On the other side sumacs multiplied, claiming more territory from year to year. Farther off pine and poplars crowd each other. A few Tamaracks, ash, alder and ghostly birches insinuated themselves into the press. On the property line a magnificent American beech spreads its limbs and branches to shelter a few ferns. In one corner, pussy willows thrive. Holly, blueberry, dogwood bushes fill in the rest. Swamp milkweed add a spray of rose-purple to the colour spectrum. South of the pond, a profusion of cattails, bulrushes and horsetails hide an alternate water course that drains the bypass overflow. In autumn the place is taken over by goldenrod as contrast to the crimson glow of the sumacs. Cattail seed heads shed their silky white strands.

Canada geese are regular visitors, especially at migration times. They collect on an open field to feed, but come to take a drink or bathe and preen themselves. It is a rush to see their take off, the short run, the powerful strokes, the white line they draw on the surface. As well a host of mallard ducks and an occasional heron put in an appearance.

The trees are full of nests, best seen in winter among the bare branches. Red winged blackbirds flash by, bluejays chatter noisily. Robins, cardinals, killdeer, orioles and goldfinch find shelter among the pines. A sandpiper patrols the flats; a woodpecker hammers at the trunk of a dead tree. Crows wheel about, having spotted some opportunity on the ground. An owl is perched on a high branch, scanning for movement in the view. An occasional hawk also shows an interest, circling lazily above. In the evening dusk, barely visible, bats flit by, hunting moths.

The focus of the site is the view of open water that mirrors the mood of the sky. The breeze rustles the leaves, ruffles the surface, making the sun dance on the ripples. A dry leaf sails like a boat back and forth until caught by the press of reeds near shore. Sometimes the pond broods under a cloud, waiting for the rain to start. The depth is often hidden by reflections of trees leaning out over the water, the lilies sunning on top. The dark bottom absorbs the light, blind to what goes on above. Frogs jump in to disturb the surface even more.

In ten years, the water washed itself a lower spillway over the dam, the water level dropped 4 feet and the bottom rose to a mere three feet and biology took over completely. The underground springs silted up, reducing the inflow. A scum of algae accumulated on top, pushed around by variable winds. In the shallows, reeds became thicker, and an eruption of cattails crowded the banks. Every step stirred up a stink of rot and slime. The insect population exploded. The geese came less frequently though the ducks were less choosy about the cleanliness. The deer still came to drink at night, and there were prints of racoons in the mud where they hunted for frogs.

By slow degrees, the picturesque paradise open to the sun and the sky, reverted to its primordial origins. It was shrinking, closing in. Less and less of it was visible from the road as a curtain of bushes screened off the view. Tall grass now hides the path we once walked to enjoy the swimming hole. Clouds of insects swarm in the air where we had sunbathed between refreshing dips. From a civilized park it had become a regenerating conservation area, surrendering to nature.

Still it remains a cross road. Trails of animals converge on it and radiate out in all directions. It is not unusual to catch a whiff of a skunk and have time to retreat from an encounter. Coyotes regularly pause to look over the place, seeking targets of opportunity. Sometimes wild turkeys gobbling in the undergrowth, heading to grouse in the higher fields. Voles and moles make their burrows in the lee of some shelter.

In winter the pond freezes over, a little thinner where the inflow eats away at the underside of the ice. Snow accumulates on top, showing the track of every inhabitant. I read the prints and from time to time take a census. There is a feral feline that regularly passes through; it is a mystery how she survives the rigours of winter. Prints of a neighbouring dog document his explorations. The symmetric marks of a rabbit are easily recognizable. Then a mouse track hardly visible as it scurries its light weight over the sun-hardened crust.

Infrequently a splash of red soaks into the snow, where a poor creature has found its end, victim of a predator. An owl preens itself in the crown of a tree; it can hear the mice in their tunnels dug into the snow. The pond is an epicentre of activity, attracting creatures large and smell. Not least, humans come to visit. And why not, it is one of the most recognized feature on the 50 acres. "I’ll meet you at the pond;" no one will get lost.

A letter to a Friend

It is good you’ll be visiting a place that knows you and remembers you. Where your boot is where you have left it and your clothes know their place. Where even April makes sense, soaking up water against the dryness of July.

April is a month of transition, the war of seasons, fighting for dominance. But it is also a change from bad to good, from good to better. It is a preview of what is to come and lookback to what has been. It is a promise and a lie, both at the same time. It’s a bit like driving, focussing ahead, yet looking back in the mirror.

I understand the words you confess, if not the intensity. You show me a hole, ask me to admire its depth and darkness of it. And I can feel the oppression churn on the bottom and sense the paralysing mire of lethargy, and like a bear, I would like to sleep through all of it. But NO, I would rather throw you a line and invite you up, knowing you are heavy with the darkness and it is an effort just to breathe. The very thing you need, the darkness robs you of.

Don’t be too hard on yourself. Accept the fact that this time of year triggers this reaction in you. It is a trick of your body, not of your will, you are not to blame. Don’t spend all your energy fighting the darkness, instead look for more light, anything to give you comfort and strength.

Take courage from the tree in the yard, in whose shade you have stood and whose boughs you have explored, perhaps have your name carved into its bark. It had withstood many Aprils, many changes, had been fooled into premature budding and been punished by cruel frost for an early hope. It has yet endured.

I know you know this all . . . and more besides. You have been through it and have thought and fought this thing too many time. When I’m caught in it, I hate the incessant inner bickering trying to spur myself into doing what I know I should. Perhaps the trick is to surprise it, just do without thinking, without making plans, without reflecting. Sometimes things gets so busy, I have no time for anything else.

Please don’t think me patronizing. It morning again and I’m still undefended and bleeding reactions.

When confronted with the abyss, look darkness in the face, feel the compelling pull of its gravity, when no more consolations suffices, I remember there is the God I grew up with, and surrender my troubles to him. Let Him carry it.

Take heart. This too shall pass.

Musings in the Morning

It has been a long winter and it’s not over yet.
The snow falls as I write, rattling the window panes
Swirl of flakes ride the wind
My spirit is weary and feels the chill
My mood is darkening, dragging me down
Yet I must not succumb, not slip under the waves
hold onto that last straw that broke the cipple's back
but can yet save you and I

I tell myself:
when darkness surrounds you, remember the light
when unwanted thoughts intrude, close the door tight
do not own the self that condemns you
do not listen to those voices that mock and taunt you
put down the dark pen, know the truth
you are better, stronger, saner than the rest
be forgiving and more generous to yourself
as you would to someone else’s suffering
I tell myself

A soldier bleeds, us writers, we weep ink
swim with metaphors, struggle with split infinitives
we search for inspiration in a grocery list
and despair of ever, never finishing
The pain, the pain, is like a toothache
with no prescription
For the monkey on my back

Yet celebrate the victory, another wrong word found and rooted out
My book is like a garden that I must tend, for it has a will of its own,
growing weeds, typos, worse those damn split infinities and comma fungi,
and those deep rooted pluperfect monsters with their conditional outlook
in the past, in the future, that never happened yet
Can I really say that and get away with it?
Have I lost another reader in that last paragraph?

Poor reader
crawling through the vast desert
uninspired, unengaged
lost in my story line
hoping for a resolution, any solution
Do not give up
there is relief in the end
I hope there is . . . at least a kinder tone.

I would if I could but don’t
for I’m paralysed by the words stretching out over a horizon
unending, unbending, in front of me.
There are still vast jungles between the beginning and the end
Between the first word and the last
Things I wrote in the first flash of enthusiasm
that no longer fit, but oh so hard to give up
to surrender, to let go
and they haunt me still for I do remember them all

What version, you ask, I’m working on?
I can’t tell, for I have memory of them all
and expect, unfairly perhaps, my readers to know them all
Why, it is obvious, isn’t it?

Alas, but I must yet again . . .
launch another attempt to rescue my book
I have found a thread sticking out of the tapestry
a loose item in the story line
simple really to fix it, so bravely I tug at it
and the damn thing unravels
and half is now on the floor
I try to stuff it back
Damn, it won’t fit, won't go

But such is life
a journey, not a destination

So take courage
ride if you must
spread fresh straw if that is what it takes
sleep, wake afresh
for me let the waters flow
with the coming warmth new ideas will sprout
and overgrow the holes I made
in the story line.

We don’t really bleed ink anymore
We are dandelions
casting words like seeds
into the winds of the Internet
not knowing where they end up
whose lawn they infect.

My musing run on and away
And I wonder if anyone is listening?
I do and I reflect
That should be enough.

Morning is the only time I own
When I am with myself alone
to have a serious dialogue
but emotions still leak
my face is not yet set
the actor does not come out for his first curtain call of the day
till 8:30 to 9:00 am
Yet I do my best work so
and my worst
So excuse me if I preach
I just let it flow . . . let it go
out there alone.

50 Acres.

(from a work in progress, The Beaver Diaries)

Passing a scattering of houses amidst the farmlands, the east-west concession road crests the highest point of the landscape to come upon the 50 acres tucked into its many folds. To the south a line of dense trees and undergrowth screens the view. From there, the property dips into the ravine, crosses 160 meters of the even before climbing steeply to regain the lost elevation. On top, the scene opens up again, tilted slightly to the south-east, catching sight of the town of Bradford creeping over the rim of the valley.

The width-to-depth ratio is 2 to 7, with the front third covered with reforested pine and fast-growing softwood to hold the slope from slipping into the soggy bottom of the ravine. The rest, divided into three fields, is planted with rotating crops of hay, corn, soybean and winter wheat. The farm is edged by a tree line, catching the gaze and returning it to the viewer. The neighbouring fields are rarely glimpsed through the gaps where wild grapes vines have pulled down a tree by their amassed weight.

To the east a hobby farm occupies 35 acres with a modern split level overlooking an artificial lake in the embrace of hardwood trees. A retired couple maintains three horses that graze along the barbed wire fence, stretching their necks, begging for apples from passers-by.
To the west are 80 acres with a dilapidated barn but no farmhouse. The surrounding fields, however, are intensively worked, mostly growing varieties of corn. The fields are table flat, easily workable.

Across the road to the north, a vegetable grower makes a living on 100 plus acres. A collection of farm buildings crowd the lane that turns in a wide circle to allow the big trucks to navigate.
Almost exactly bisecting the road frontage the narrow access lane descends sharply under an archway of ageing maples. A loose gravel surface leads the visitor sharply down the incline. Bushes reach in from the side greeting every car. Reaching level bottom, to the right a water wash winds its way through the trees, crossing underneath in a steel culvert, to feed the pond on the left. Reeds, water lilies and algae choke the water, infrequently glimpsed through a curtain of bushes and wild apple trees. The tire tracks worn into the laneway lead the runoff water to collect here, to soften the ground, creating a twin necklace of potholes. The lane then tackles the uphill in the shadow of more maples and pines that serve as a snow fence. On both sides rusting wire fencing links the trees, the strands half-swallowed by the trunks over the years. At the top reaching level ground again, the path passes by a cottage on the right, crowded by bushes and perennials. Most times the grass is cut, holding back the wilderness. 60 yards farther on, the farmhouse appears, overreached by more sugar maples. These are giant trees, the largest on the entire property. The century has not been kind to the place; brickwork is often pitted; the paint is peeling from the door and window frames, exposing the sun-weary wood beneath; the red metal shingles on the roof are faded to dull brown. Signs of a wraparound porch still show on the weather-worn facade.

The lane then loops around a tired machine shed leaning 8 degrees from the weight of many a winters’ snow and from the pressure of the prevailing wind from the north-west. Rusting farm machinery hides in the surrounding tall grass. Coming fully about, the path turns its back on the tall barn with its silver boards sitting on a concrete foundation. Rust-stained sheet metal covers the top surmounted with several lightning roads stabbing at the clouds. To one side of the barn ramp towers the grey mass of the silo, an empty cylinder aimed at the sky.

These buildings form the very centre of the 50 acres. Passing the barn, the old lane is choked off by thick grass and bushes. Fields extend to either side further south to a triangle of bush where a creek cuts through the corner of the property.

What’s it like living on 50 acres? With no neighbours, surrounded by a green mote, with no curtains on the windows, at the safe distance from a rushing world? Peaceful.

Not all honey and sweet though. In winter the snow piles up and the tractor finds no place to push the accumulation. From time to time the car is caught by the bank and pulled into the ditch, plugging the access like a cork in a bottle. In spring, melt water floods the lane and a summer downpour carves twisting ruts into the gravel path.

But even worse, in spring, the manure is spread on the fields and the stink of pigs poisons the air and I quickly lose my appetite.

Still, the sounds we hear are of birds and insects, the howling of coyotes from the hill woods, the barking of a fox in the undergrowth, the screech of a hawk cruising above the field.