A Shallow pond sat in back of and to the East of our
little childhood home. It sat like a
mirror reflecting the small oak trees that grew around its muddy banks. It contained two feet of mud and anywhere
from two to four feet of water.
Now, let me tell you about a horse pond. Such slimy things grow there, like horsehair
snakes, tadpoles, snapping turtles, and large bullfrogs. A happy day could be spent just poking
around.
The boys always told me that if you put a horsehair into
the pond, that it would turn into a tiny little snake. But like so many of their little tales, I
could never believe many of them.
An old cow path ran from this pond into the pasture. Before long, someone would shout, “Follow the
leader”. Off we’d go around and through
briers and brambles, down into gullies and across the creeks, walking along a
fallen log, climbing up the tallest tree and swinging from one of the low limbs
down and around and around, till we were back to the pond.
Home. Supper. “Now wash your hands and face, its supper
time”. What’s that old song?
