Right along dusk not too long ago, we walked to the pond on the farm where I grew up. Sadie, at 4 years old, wore her galoshes and galloped ahead of us down the gravel drive.
These days, she’s either Rosie the dog or Lightning the horse. The writer in me thrills at her imagination; the mom in me sighs when she informs me she cannot possibly clean up her toys, for horses haven’t any hands. She transforms at will, with a magic—and a freedom reserved for the young and for the eccentric.
Eric and I parted the trail of dust she made and followed at a handy distance. Far enough to speak like married couples do, close enough to scoop her from the ground and kiss away any gravel sting should she fall. Closer to the pond, she galloped back to us and took my hand.
“You can hold my hoof, Mommy,” she said.
I understood and cupped her offered hoof.
There at the edge of the pond, with my child-turned-horse and my husband, the memories of decades past bubbled, rose and surfaced to make gentle pops in the open air of my mind. Snapping turtles, cane poles, blue gill, frogs and the sudden rush of wings from a startled bird all poured into the same bucket. This I carried to every bowl of water fringed with cattails and clothed with summer algae, no matter the coordinates on a map.
The tools that carve us are portable, applicable, meaningful, and we are wise to keep them well.
In the gathering dark by the edge of the drive, the mystery of the pond at night deepened and came alive with sound.
I crouched beside my daughter and pointed.
“That is a redwing blackbird. Listen to its sound.”
She gave a little tug of independence with her hoof, and I tried to think young thoughts toward my protesting knees as I rose.
“Looks like somebody cut something down here,” Eric said and nodded at the bank.
I took my eyes off the birds in the cattails and gazed at the stubs whose tips were turning brown.
“Grandmother’s lilies,” I said. “They did the same thing at the farm entrance.”
When a family farm sells, it is a hard thing only to those who mind the tools. In our hearts, we keep the boundaries of fence and tree, of whose name goes with which address, of lilies and crown vetch and the apples whose trees were cut down to make way for the plans of new owners.
I willed away the emotion that loss brings as I crouched down again. I pointed toward the left bank.
“Remember the redwing sound.”
I pointed toward the far end of the pond, the wild, wooded, swampier parcel.
“That … is the sound of the tree frogs.”
I moved my finger with their calls and marked the sound with motion.
“Remember the tree frog sound.”
Sadie gazed across the pond and moved her finger in time with mine.
“And that,” I pointed to the left bank, “and THAT,” I pointed to the right bank, “are the bullfrogs. They’re having a conversation across the pond.”
I mimicked the sound and her eyes widened.
“Do it again,” her voice barely a whisper.
I tucked my chin, and carved a gentle U in the air, scooping the sound up and out.
She tucked her chin and carved a gentle U in the air, too. She watched my face for approval of her sound and got just what she sought. She turned back to the still water and waited a moment or two.
“Bullfrog, speak!” she said.
I’d like to think a special grace from God touched those bullfrogs, for seconds after her command, the warm-up chorus began.
“The darker it gets, the louder the songs,” I said.
A thousand nights bubbled to the surface of my mind where I had lain on my bed and slid toward slumber, accompanied by the symphony of frogs at the pond. There, in my blue childhood room, both windows flung open, white sheers swayed by the breeze, each day had drawn down business into night. The sweetness of long-ago innocent rest made tears spring to my eyes.
When the songs swelled louder than the assurance of next day’s dawn, Sadie put her little hoof back in mine and tugged me in the direction of the house.
This, too, I understood.
The child who transforms at will must also succumb to the imagination that draws creatures from the depths after dark.
From “Bullfrog, speak!” to “Good night, pond,” we turned and galloped for home.
YOUR TURN – In the comment section below, share one of your favorite “Kentucky water moments.”