The Pond's Secret

Gordon’s Pond was renamed each time, the cute Cape Cod House, on Spring Street, that sat above it was sold. It’s funny, but when I was a boy, not many people moved. The pond seemed to change names every couple of winters or so. In summer it wasn’t much to look at, some frogs and tadpoles, and occasional snake, but there were bigger and better ponds around town. It was in winter, when it was below freezing for enough days in a row, that the Gordon’s would have the fire department hook up to the hydrant just up the street and lay down an even layer of water, so that at its deepest point, it would be maybe three feet. On a sunny day, the frozen pond would reflect the Gordon’s house and landscape beautifully, but this didn’t last long. On Saturday, one by one, cars would randomly slow, stop, let out a child or two, and they would descend the slope to the pond. They would sit on logs that had been placed there for the sole purpose of pulling on your skates and tying them up tightly. Soon, any picturesque reflection would be gone until the next time water was added. Now straight and crooked lines would mar the once clear surface, and a sort of build up of a slushy nature would be made. For me and my pals, this was a perfect reason to carry hockey sticks and brush the excess ice off to the side. At opposite ends, we’d pile up two straight lines, that served as goals for the first hockey games of the winter. Time of day and size of player determined who would be playing, usually the little ones early and then the big kids after noon. Somehow, everyone else skated around the action, sometimes having to quickly move aside to avoid a three-man rush. No one had the right equipment, just skates and sticks and pucks, it hurt like hell when a stick rode all the way up and whacked a mitten covered hand, or a stick to the shin would give you some time on the sideline, where you could sit on a log and literally put your skates into a fire that was always going, and was pit stop to warm hands and sometimes feet. At night, there were a couple of lights hung up high in the trees facing and shining dimly on the pond, this skating was for the parents and those lucky enough to be going steady and needed some together time. No hockey could be played, and thus at 9:30 PM the lights would blink a couple of times and at 10:00 PM off they’d go, leaving only the dying fire for skaters to change from skates to shoes or boots. For years, we used the pond for skating or we’d use the one down by the Police Station. Eventually an ice-skating rink was built in Brockton, and the serious hockey players began going there. It was too expensive for me, and my mother would say, you have a hoop outside, shoot some baskets, so I did.

My interests had changed as I got to high school, but when I was younger, it was always baseball. I played in little league, and when that was over, the summers were spent riding bikes to various fields around town, from Sunset Avenue School to the Matfield Street area. There would be telephone calls at night or first thing in the morning and the schedule of where and when to play would be set. We rarely had eighteen kids, but we managed to field enough to make fair contests. Usually there was a game in the morning, and then everyone would leave for lunch, then another, sometimes at a different field, in the afternoon. We’d fill our empty Coke or Pepsi bottles with water and set them in the shade, the only thing that could spoil our fun was rain. My mother would say we were like caged tigers when it rained. Even today, I don’t remember many rainy days in summer. We developed close bonds and friendships, settled our own disputes with zero fatalities. We were preparing for the step up to junior high and high school and life.

I lived on Spring Street and walked by the pond every day on my way to West Bridgewater High School, just over a mile from my house at 361. My interests, the older and bigger I got, moved above little league and leaned away from hockey and more towards my favorite, basketball. I was, as long as my grades held up, a breathing, bleeding maroon and white faithful Westies Warrior, Wildcat after 1965. I had followed the teams of the late 50’s and was greatly influenced by the examples of teamwork they had set for future generations, my generation. Basketball was all I thought about, and when school was out, I was shooting at home or any court I could find, and much like baseball, it consumed my free time.

My junior year, I developed a wart on the ball of my right foot. Warts do not normally cause problems as most show up on the skin and they will go away or not with time or removed. Warts on the bottom of your foot, known as plantar warts, are very likely to give you the most trouble, and this one surely did. With every step, I suffered a painful reminder that it was there. It feels like you’re walking with a rock in your shoe. Even when I was barefoot, the pain was unrelenting. Of course, as my podiatrist pointed out, when plantar warts occur, they are most painful where ever the foot receives the most pressure, when standing or walking, and in my case, painfully so, running. Since I had to do all three of these things, the plantar wart was driven deeper into my foot. The Dr. explained that by walking, standing or running, it squashes the wart, so it looks more like a callus than a traditional wart. The difference is easy, a callus doesn’t hurt when you squeeze it, “no shit Dick Tracy”, I said to myself. After a couple of trips, it was decided that the Dr. would cut the plantar wart out of my foot. A local anesthetic, would numb the foot, while he did his version of the digging of the Panama Canal. The procedure, carefully sliced off skin all around the area, leaving almost a ½” hole, where in the center monsieur plantar resided. Then applying the coup de gras, with one deep stroke the Dr. hacked off my painful friend. A thick bandage, with a hole in the center, was taped to my foot and I limped out of his office. I asked him for a note, as I had missed basketball practice, and he wrote a lovely note saying what had happened and that I shouldn’t play ball for a couple of weeks. I had the weekend to heal, because I didn’t want to miss practice on Monday. After the Novocain wore off, the pain was indescribable, and I took 5 Bayer aspirin every few hours, and stayed off my feet as much as I could. I rebandaged Saturday and again Sunday night, making sure I could fit into my Converse high top sneaker, which by Monday morning I was able to do, though a bit snugly. I had my mother write me a note, telling coach I had been to the foot doctor, and to please forgive my absence from Friday’s practice.

What did you do with the note that the doctor had written, you may ask? I found a pound and a half rock, and put it a brown paper sandwich bag, along with the Dr.’s note, and as I passed the unfrozen Gordon’s Pond, I tossed it into the middle and kept on walking (limping) to school. When coach asked how I was, I said getting better every day coach. In time, I was better, though thinking back, I should have gone to a doctor, to remove the splinters from my derriere, from all the time spent on the bench. It didn’t matter, I loved the game, the practices and the satisfaction of being on a winning team, would be carried with me for the rest of my life.

Years would pass, I’d go to college for a while, then be married with four beautiful children, and even move away from my little town of West Bridgewater, MA. Whenever I visit now, and drive down Spring Street, and I pass Gordon’s, Lawson’s, Larkin’s Pond, I wonder about the note in a bag I left there in 1963. The first few years I hoped the ice would be the trick to keep that secret buried, and the summer muck would allow my secret to estivate with the frogs. One year, I think 1995, as I passed the pond, I was shocked to see, that whoever the new owners were had completely filled in the pond. It was now a magnificent lawn with a circular driveway and parking spaces for at least 4 cars. I smiled and I mused, it will take a long thaw, for my secret to ever be discovered.