The Legend of Satterfield Pond

Satterfield Farm was once the garden spot of Calloway County. Folks traveled from all over the Midwest to admire their perfectly plowed fields, sculpted flower beds and prized winning cattle. Even the Amish that normally shunned the way of the "English," sought ways to emulate the corn and soybean yields produced by the Satterfield Clan. For generations, people pointed to the Satterfield property as the model family farm. But things change.

Younger generations of Satterfield's determined early in life to leave the fourteen hour days of manual labor to work in industries with lesser physical demands. Some graduated with business degrees and clawed to the top of corporate ladders. Others majored in accounting and joined established companies to help people with their taxes. None missed the pre-dawn rituals of feeding the livestock, pulling weeds in the scorching sun, or breaking surface ice on the multi-acre pond in the dead of winter. But even in the Summer time, the farmhands shied away from the pond. Legends sprang up about the pond's culpability in the drowning death of a Satterfield child at the height of the farm's storied past. Witnesses claimed the pond swallowed the young boy; the bank gave way, and the child disappeared into the depths. There was no screaming, flailing or splashing...though some heard raucous laughter as the water devoured the youngster. And maybe that was the true reason for the farm's closure.

The local community warned visitors to stay clear of the farm, "It's haunted," they claimed. Others boasted of surviving the "Monster of Satterfield's Pond," pointing to scars on their arms and legs. It didn't matter that those scars most likely came from wading through thorns to pick blackberries or climbing barbed-wire fences, most people bought into the haunting tales. Old-timers embellished the story over the years, claiming that dozens of children died on the farm, and that no one ever investigated for fear of falling victim. In the 1970's and 80's, as the farm gasped its final breath, people in town printed up t-shirts about the Pond Monster of Satterfield Farms. Customers flocked to purchase the apparel as the farm padlocked the front gate for the final time. Some say neighboring farmers created the legend and hysteria out of jealousy. But no matter who or what triggered the farmstead's demise, the legend crippled the farm until it shut its doors. Maybe the real monsters were the rumor mill, gossip and the ridiculous claims.

I know. I'm a Satterfield.

In fact, I'm the child that witnesses claimed drowned. As Mark Twain once wrote, "The report of my death was an exaggeration."

After my grandfather dug out the pond's boundaries he installed a long drainage pipe that protruded from the pond's depths several feet. It served no other purpose than to be a fun slide for his grandchildren when they tired of fishing or swimming in the manmade lake. The pipe extended for a few hundred feet underground and opened into the hay barn a hundred yards away. My Dad played in that pipe as a child and my siblings and I did as well. Over time, brush grew up around the pipe's opening, concealing the entrance. My siblings and I stood on the pond's bank, leaped, and dove into the gaping hole. We slid several feet then army crawled to safety. Many adventures were had in the drainage tunnel.

When my family heard the rumors, we laughed. We never dreamed the reports would gain traction. Even when I rode with Dad to town to buy feed, the townspeople claimed it must have been one of the other Satterfield's that drowned. Over time, visitors to the farm dwindled and people stopped buying our produce and free range chicken eggs. The income stream dried up, my siblings moved away to establish careers of their own, and the family farm ceased to exist.

My parents passed a few years ago, leaving the farm to me. No hard feelings exist between my siblings and I. I'm the one who stayed with mom and dad on the farm until the bitter end.

Which brings me to where I am today. Here. Back at the farm.

I haven't visited the property in a couple of years. The old house now stands in the middle of a pasture; the roof of the barn collapsed months ago after a large oak toppled in a storm. Half of the fencing now leans over, inviting wildlife to forage all parts of the abandoned property. And the pond...well, it's still there.

As I look at the pond, I note small fish striking at water bugs gliding across the water. A few larger fish surface creating rings in the center of the lake. And, the drainage pipe still stands sentinel, appearing as the neck of Loch Ness protruding from the murky water. I know it's probably crazy, but I feel it's only appropriate to explore the tunnel once more. I pull my feet from my boots and toss my jacket over a prickly bush as I mentally measure the distance I must jump to land safely inside. As a kid, I leaped throwing caution to the wind. As a middle-aged man, father and husband, I weigh the consequences of injury but determine to have a go.

With a clumsy lunge, I scream, "Geronimo." And yes, if anyone strolled nearby at the time of my jump, they heard laughter emanating from the pond's edge for one last time.