The Pond Ritual

But I knew it was there. I grew up playing around that river. I probably had a childhood like Chief Swimming River himself did, a long, long time ago.

It was a ritual for me. The best time was on an early Saturday morning in the summer. I would hear birds—hundreds of birds in my backyard—crows, sparrows, blackbirds, blue jays, all singing loudly to one another. I would hear them calling, and slowly their singing would wake me up. There was no waiting around on a day like this. Every part of my body was ready for action.

Quickly, I dressed and rushed outside to my bike. I pedaled fast. The breeze blew my hair back! I was on my way to my favorite spot. This was a place where I could see with my own eyes all the wonders of life.

When I reached the dirt road, pedaling became difficult in the soft sand. I had to get off and push my bike. The sand was damp from dew so early in the morning. The wide meadow glowed with the dew drops on the tall grass.

When I got there, I hid my bike by the side of the road. I ran down the small foot path into the woods. Before I got to the bottom of the long hill, I stopped so I could catch my breath. I calmed down, and then walked to the bottom of the hill. The pond was there.

It seemed very big then. I could hear all the sounds around me. I carefully walked toward the pond. I tried to walk like a ghost! I could smell the moisture in the air. I could smell the wet ground. The ground was squishy to walk on.

If I sat very still and quiet, I saw it all. Small creatures moved everywhere. Graceful dragonflies with delicate pink and turquoise wings flew above the water. They would fly away so fast!

Turtles sunned on the log. Water bugs skated through the water. Tiny tadpoles hatched, grew legs, and turned into frogs. The creatures just ignored me.

I became enchanted by the life of the pond—my world!

Bullfrogs! Have you ever listened to an orchestra of bullfrogs? What a sound! It’s like the vibrating of a loose rubber band. Plunk, plunk, plunk. Then a splash. I would turn my head, but not fast enough to see the frog. I really wanted to see a frog. They hid in the grasses all around the edges. If I walked around the edge, I scared them all back into the water. Then I knew their hiding places and could sneak up on them later. Sometimes they just sat in the water near a lily pad with their beady eyeballs staring up at me.

Those frogs were sly. But every now and then, I managed to catch one. I held it in my hand. The skin felt smooth and wet. The feet had long, delicate fingers. It felt very soft. The frog acted scared, like I might eat him.

I tried to reassure him. He looked at me and didn’t struggle to get away. I wondered if he was curious about me. Very gently, I placed an index finger next to his throat, and he croaked! The feeling in my hand amazed me. I placed the frog at my feet and watched as it leaped into the water again. It disappeared from view.

I was muddy, so I followed the path to the river where the water was fresh and clean. I waded through the water to rinse the mud away. My sneakers felt funny to walk in.

Soon, I was on my way home, knowing it was time for breakfast, then chores. The sun was all the way up now. Everyone was awake. I had to leave my secret world for now. Until next time. But I would carry it with me always,

. . . in my imagination.