The Pond Hours
How To Make a Holiday Out of Home
Leaning against the kitchen counter, I pulled all the remaining meat off the chicken I roasted Sunday. I placed the leftover thigh, wing, and breast bits in a bowl and spun around in an anxious rush to put it back in the fridge, knocking the stripped carcass to the floor in the process. It hit the ground like a fistful of wet pennies in a sock.
I growled. Usually I save the bones for stock, but now it had the same seasoning as the bottom of my chore boots, and even if I boiled it within an inch of its life, I wasn’t going to forget the several species-worth of poop I stepped in. In a frustrated bark to no-one I exclaimed, “IS THIS THE THIRD THING?!”
No one answered but I did startle the dog.
I’d always believed in that superstition that bad things come in threes, and was waiting for the third shoe to drop, so to speak.
Saturday I had to use old fencing wire to rig the muffler to the chassis of my car. The main exhaust pipe snapped, and all the metal intestines were hanging precariously from the rear of my 15-year-old gold Subaru, Holland Taylor. Great.
Sunday I tripped and re-sprained my bad ankle. I didn’t even injure it in a cool way. I fell walking across the pasture in tall grass that made the uneven ground seem level. That’s all it took to roll my weak tendon and fall.
It’s the same ankle that has kept me off running and hiking that I slowly had been trying to mend. I even went hiking a few weeks ago. I was so looking forward to going again Tuesday after the trails emptied of holiday hikers—to see the AT in full summer glory not just spring thaw—but now it hurt to put any weight on it at all unless my foot was perfectly level. Any slight incline that moved weight off the bones and into tendons made me wince in pain. I was more angry than anything else.
So what was the third bad thing happening this holiday weekend? Could I skate by with soup bones landing on a floor I hadn’t mopped in a week? I’m not a germaphobe, but I’m not meticulously cleaning the carcass of a chicken to save one pint of stock—not after that muffler and ankle drama—so I chucked the bones into the compost pile with vicious aplomb. If this disappoints you, save your statement for my congressional hearings. I was upset.
Being upset was upsetting. It was a holiday. People all around me were gathering with cookouts and fireworks and off from work. And more importantly, the sun was shining for the first time after a week of cold rain. I would not let routine car repairs and a bum ankle ruin my Memorial Day. Hiking plans were off. Walking Friday down the road was off. Driving somewhere was off. What I could do though, was something I don’t do enough of:
a picnic at the pond
There’s a small pond on my property. A few weeks ago I started tending it for the season. I cut down all the debris, weeds, and thorn bushes around the “beach” area and whacked the grass down to what passes around here as a lawn. With a blanket, a fly rod, a cooler, and my ukulele I was going to have a fine holiday at home, damnit. Not even I was going to ruin this.
Money is tight and times are scary, so I wasn’t about to go buy cookout supplies. My plan was to make chicken caesar wraps out of the leftover spoils from Sunday’s roast. I already cut a bunch of spring greens from the garden, a mix of young lettuce and kale. They were washed and sparking in a colander in the sink.
I made myself croutons from three-day-old sourdough. My neighbor Linda bakes it, once a week or so we trade her bread for a dozen eggs. The last three days I enjoyed it fresh with butter and then reincarnated into French Toast. Today the rest was cubed up and set in the oven for a few minutes with some butter and seasoning. Soon as they were brown and crispy, I pulled them out to cool. I didn’t have cheese on hand, but I did have creamy caesar dressing in the fridge, at least a 1/4 bottle of it, and I figured if I doubled up the greens, added croutons for crunch, went heavy on the dressing, and kept them crispy and cold in the cooler, I wouldn’t miss the cheese. I was not running to town in a loud car held together with farm supplies to buy cheese.
It didn’t take long to fill the cooler. I ended up with enough ingredients to roll three wraps loaded with greens, radish, chicken, croutons, and dressing. I turned on the electric kettle and put a plain old Lipton tea bag and peach tea bag in a large mug, brewed it, and then poured all 20+ oz into a large quart mason jar full of ice and screwed the lid on tight. For good measure, I threw in a chunk of corn bread with a slab of butter and a few cokes from the fridge. I wouldn’t eat all that, but there was a chance company would stop by and a proper Hobbit has hospitality on the mind at all times. If friends stopped by I would want wraps and sodas and space on the blanket for anyone. It’s not every day the sun is shining on the water.
If I had one pet peeve with people that move to the country, it’s their reluctance to be in the country. So many people that move from the suburbs to the sticks want that same lifestyle with a bigger yard. They commute over an hour to work, drive kids all weekend to sporting events or clubs, or leave home for long trips of restaurants and shopping. Their dream country home becomes another place to sleep between work and consuming, only with more landscaping requirements. I’ll never understand it.
I afford to remain out here because I remain here. Being away from all of that stuff was the entire point. It was time to act like it, with intention and gratitude. That’s the best remedy for a sour mood, anyway. Stop pouting at spilled chicken and snapped pipes and get it together. You’re a healthy woman on her own farm and the sun is shining. Go do something about it, woman.
So I did something about it. I grabbed my supplies and waddled my way down the road with Friday, walking carefully past the mailbox and around the bend to where I mowed a path to the water’s edge.
The path and pond was a silly idea based on romance. I am single as hell, but if by some chance I met someone this summer, wouldn’t she like a picnic by a pond? I imagined us reading together while frogs sang and ravens flew overhead, the sound of my mare in the high field sighing and swishing her tail. The sheep in the distance bleating to each other between the crows of roosters… Yet away from all of that in this quiet hollow surrounded by mountains and privacy, maybe I could cast to bluegills and bass while she listened to a podcast and suntanned. Maybe she could read a chapter to me while I stretched tired muscles with a full stomach of food I raised on land I managed to keep…
I don’t think any romance is happening this summer, at least not involving another person. But plenty is happening for me, because of me, and this pond was mine to revel in regardless of my Hinge notifications.
The following hours were glorious. The sun was warm and the blanket was big. Friday napped in the shade while I played You’re On Your Own Kid and sang to the frogs. The bugs were minimal and bug spray was in the fishing kit if they weren’t. I had eaten a whole chicken wrap and took a big bite of the buttery cornbread. The peach iced tea was better than cheese or dessert.
With a full stomach I laid there reading books (switching between a silly romance novel, poetry, and politics) and when reading in the sun got restless, I played a podcast while I cast out to the pond like a good ol’ boy. I mostly got flies stuck in trees (a farm pond in the woods isn’t a place for a 9ft fly rod) but I had fun anyway. If nothing else I entertained the bass.
It was later that afternoon, after strumming and fishing and digesting that I heard the sound of motorcycles roaring up the mountain. My heart lifted. I had friends out on a ride together that might swing by if their adventures landed them near my farm. Within minutes my friends Miriam, Chris, and Chris’s son Keenan were sitting with me at the pond, taking a break from their bikes in full danger gear looking like Marvel characters beside me in my flannel and chacos.
They had just eaten lunch in Manchester, and weren’t in need of wraps, but did enjoy sitting by the water with me and my girl Friday. Frogs hopped near our feet, birds flew overhead, the sun dipped in and out of the clouds and we sat there chatting, laughing, enjoying the break in the weather after a cold miserable spring.
Hours at the pond. A whole holiday of good food and friends. Music and laughing and sunlight and snacks, all of it right at home, all of it here to enjoy and not just fuss and worry over.
Summer is here. She’s waiting for me to savor and forget time, but it’s my own anxiety that steals the magic. I think the way I fight against that is making appointments like this to intentionally waste time. To stop the chaos and be still beside gentle water with friends and appreciate the reason I made these choices in the first place
And good things came from this pondcation. I got reminded how little money I need to enjoy myself, how much I like sharing this magic with people I love. We talked about their road trip, starting a new D&D campaign, and summer movie nights beside the campfire in the grove. Miriam took pictures of the memories. Chris and Keenan looked at my muffler, and sent me a link for a clamp I could buy for $12 online to patch it up with a screwdriver. By sunset the chicken carcass I chucked into the compost pile was long forgotten and forgiven. I had two more wraps to save for dinner, there wouldn’t even be dishes in the sink to wash.
It’s easy for me to expect everything to be hard and scary. A lot of it is. But expecting superstitions to haunt you, for the next shoe to drop, it steals moments like this. I could have lost the afternoon on the phone with repair center AI bots trying to figure out welding solutions and pacing in my kitchen. Instead, I allowed myself to be happy for the sunlight already served. Friends visited, food was delicious, dogs napped and frogs sang and I didn’t even break a string on my uke. It was lovely. I allowed it to be.
Some of us are already wonderful at enjoying life while it’s happening. Some of us need to be trained by our own patient hearts and even more patient friends. This Memorial Day I was reminded of the things and people I am lucky to have and a farm I will never stop fighting to save.
Cold Antler is a magical place. I have witnesses and sunlight to prove it, but it isn’t the people or the pond or me. It’s the remaining. It’s the trying. It’s the having a place that gives me stakes and purpose every single day.
I am often afraid, never bored, but every once in a while I remind myself what all this is for. For a future that feels like a lazy afternoon beside quiet water.
Women have done worse.
I spent a couple hours on the deck this weekend, reading a book in defiance of all the things that “need” to get done. Aren’t we the silliest of creatures, that we have to force ourselves to sit down for a minute?
"It's the remaining. It's the trying. It's the having a place that gives me stakes and purpose every single day."
I wrote down a few lines from this essay, but this one is my favorite. There's such a stigma around settling, staying in your hometown, putting down roots instead of "seeing the world" (as if this isn't also the world), etc., but I really love this way of reframing the value and virtue in doing that work. Cheers to stakes and purpose 💙