THE POND

I grew up in a house on the edge of a large prairie. About a block from the house into the prairie was "the pond" as all the kids called it. To a young boy, it seemed as large as Lake Michigan. But in reality, it was probably 50 feet by 100 feet, and no more than 2 feet deep at its high water time.

The pond was a natural depression in the ground, It captured storm water from surrounding prairie. In the Spring, rains helped to fill it; but by August heat, it became a mud flat. The Fall rains replenished it, and Winter froze it over.

In the middle of the pond was a huge cottonwood tree about 5 feet in diameter. Its limbs reached out to cradle the pond, as if to protect it from the winds rippling across the prairie. Of course, those same winds then blew endless cottonwood seeds to clog our window and door screens like glue. Surrounding the pond was a stand of wild crabapple and wild cherry trees woven together by wild grape vines. These became our source for hunting cocoons of cecropia moths.

As we approached the pond, we had to enter into a dense jungle of ragweed plants, seemingly 6 feet tall by late summer. These were a bonus. The stalks made great spears to toss at those large flying grasshoppers which would unfold black and yellow "wings" as they escaped. Also, when hollowed, the stalks made great peashooters with which to harass kids in class when the teacher was not alert enough to catch us.

But, it was the frogs that made the pond. We all knew when Spring had arrived when we heard the frogs loud evening serenade all the way at our house. Frogs meant tadpoles. All the kids would dip mason jars into the pond and gather tadpoles to take home and watch them become frogs, one leg at a time.

The pond was a haven for birds and butterflies. Even when it became muddy in August, tiny blues and yellow sulphurs gathered on the mud to seek moisture. But, by then, the frogs were silent and I wondered what happened to them. Also, one had to walk carefully around land crab holes that seemed to pop up. In winter, kids would ice skate on the pond, carefully avoiding collision with the cottonwood.

Today, there is no prairie. There is no pond. The prairie became endless houses. The pond became a paved street serving those houses, with a slight dip in the pavement where the pond had been. The cottonwood is gone; and when it rains, the storm water pools in the street to be flushed into a sewer or into basements. There are no frogs, except what kids might view on their smart phones.

When ponds of our innocent youth evaporate, maybe we lose a lot more than just the water.