Secret Pond

The pond was hidden just to the left of the road from the lake. Nobody knew it was there, at least that we knew of. Hidden—not on a map, no signs to indicate it’s presence.

“Someone has to know it exists,” Tay said to the rest of us kids piled in the back of the Suburban. “Otherwise, there wouldn’t be a gravel road.”

“Maybe it’s only a service road,” I offered.

“It’s secret,” Ashley said. There was no fooling her. This place had become ours from the moment Dad decided to explore the almost hidden, overgrowth dirt road that led to the tranquil setting.

There was an open space next to the pond, made up of dirt and weedy grass tufts. The space looked untouched by other humans, the trees towering overhead to shroud the deep water.

When we climbed out of the car, we all bee lined for the shore, testing the water. We knew the lake just a short distance away was cold, but maybe this water was meant for swimming.

“It’s like ice,” Cameron said, then continued a bit deeper, just to make sure. He could play in any cold water and not care about any amount of shivering.

“Cold, cold, cold,” I shrieked, and Ashley and I screamed our way a couple steps back from the chilly water.

There was no outhouse here, but we didn’t care. Dad set up a tent for us all to camp in overnight. The summer air was warm during the day, but the cool air and mosquitos came at night. By the fire we roasted marshmallows and anything else that would go on a stick. We told ghost stories that made it feel darker and more terrifying in such a hidden place.

The next morning, we were damp from the dew on our tent.

“If you didn’t touch the sides of it, you’d still be warm,” Dad warned, but it fell by the wayside, us children never grasping the concept.

We found a path that led up the stream feeding our new pond, and decided it had to be animal made, not man made. Toward the top was a waterfall, which made sense because we could hear the faint trickle from our campsite.

It was beautiful here. Undisturbed. Untouched. All ours.

When we finally left, us children opposing it, we named our new place. Secret Pond. And from then on it was officially ours. We requested this location every time we had a weekend, or a day retreat. The memories of our Secret Pond began to pile, and we told our friends at school about this place that only we could find.

But as we got older, our mystified ideas of this place were lost. Not because we didn’t believe it was only ours, but because we began to see the destruction of this lovely place by others who’d also found it. Litter began to riddle the grounds, trash lining the shore, the path to the falls, the clearing where we used to pitch our tent. It became a dumping ground to those who didn’t see the value in its purity.

As time continued, we stopped attempting to visit, because the hurt we felt from seeing what had been done to it was overpowering, and unfixable. No matter how hard we tried to clean up the messes of others, we simply couldn’t keep it clean, and the waste piled faster than we could remove it. Soon there was too much to tend to. The wilderness began to smell like a human dump site, and along with it, our memories began to shift from happy to sad.

Finally, we all agreed to not return. Maybe it was more our dad and mom who refused to bring us back at first. Maybe it was to protect our memories. Whatever it was, it worked.

I still try to forget the latest memories of a place destroyed. I keep the memories of how it once was, a frozen pond in my mind—frozen in time—where the memories of serenity still exist. I visit these memories often, enjoying the peaceful place of my childhood, knowing I can never share the place with my children, now destroyed as it is.

But the memories of Secret Pond can be shared, can be placed into stories of grandeur. Because, in my mind, and in my stories, it will remain secret and frozen in time.