When the real estate agent took my wife and me to a new subsection and pointed to a paved street without houses, I was immediately interested in the patch of forest that edged the back of Lot 65. Drawn to the dense trees, I walked down the sloping gravel and stone-strewn grass to get a closer look at something I believed was there. It was, and a deep sense of peace, of contentment, filled my whole body. There it was—what I had been hoping for, holding my breath to see: a tiny ribbon of water winding its way in a graceful elbow, hidden by trees and ground vegetation except for a stretch along this particular piece of land.
Walking slowly back to the street where my wife and the realtor were waiting, I noted that the flat part of the property was ideal for a front yard and easy garage parking; the inclined portion vas suitable for a walk-out basement, requiring little excavation and providing good drainage; the patch of forest would be a sound and visual buffer for the main road, some 200 yards away. And, there was a narrow brook—ideal for what I had wanted all my life. Here, where my new home would be, there was a spot to dig a small fish pond that I had always dreamed of having.
As my wife and the realtor chatted at the front edge of the barren lot in the drizzly rain of that October afternoon, I saw myself sitting on a large wooden deck facing the forest, enjoying a private view of a shimmering fish pond. Once again I asked the realtor if that portion of the stream belonged to this particular property; yes, he answered, indicating that I should follow him. We walked down the lot and into the woods, with their golden leaves drifting to the wet ground. He pointed way beyond the stream to show where “my” property ended, and I saw a marker stick with a red ribbon.
With a big smile, I nodded to my wife. This was it, the site of our new home. I wrote the binder check. We would move from Connecticut and retire in Kentucky. I was sixty-five years old, the new owner of land in a state I had never seen before and didn’t know how to spell, but I was committed to building a new house—our dream house—and my fish pond!
While putting the Connecticut house on the quickly-evaporating market, selecting what books and furniture to take to our new house, giving furniture and other items to friends, donating to Good Will, and loading the car with things to take to the dump, I pictured the fish pond I would soon have. I envisioned it as being between two large trees, some 30 feet apart, that would shadow the water with a canopy of vaulted leafy branches. As I packed, negotiated deals, planned, and raced around taking care of countless details, I saw myself sitting by the pond, watching the fish darting to and fro, or sipping cocoa on the deck and gazing across the backyard at the little pool of crystal water with its happy fish darting about.
My wife and I went to Kentucky three times to see how the construction was advancing under the supervision of our contractor, a perceptive and good natured blue-eyed Irishman. While everyone was involved in details for the new house, my eyes eagerly looked for the little creek elbow which was covered by snow. But I knew it was there and that was good enough for me. It turned out that we were the first to build a house on that street. Soon other homes were under construction, and builders cleared lots and bulldozed dead trees, roots, large stones and all kinds of refuse into my stream. Yet, during the spring rains, I was happy to see my creek becoming a torrent of muddy water carrying debris with surprising speed and power.
We moved into the house did a lot of landscaping, planting numerous perennial and seasonal flowers. Our deck, which stretched across the back of the house, became a suspended garden of pots overflowing with tomatoes, eggplants, cucumbers, hot peppers, and flowers. Around the deck I planted grapevines from a Kentucky vineyard; their canes, shoots and fruit clusters dressed in green leaves crawled up the pillars and sideways along the two parallel wires I nailed between the supporting timber posts. Instead of bare posts around a cement patio, the back of my house presented a captivating vision of climbing intertwining leaves and lush green grapes. As I pruned and supported the vines, I looked out to the forest at the edge of my property—and promised myself one day my dream would come true.
Two very busy years passed. I was so happy with my life, yet something was gnawing at me: with no grandchildren in sight, I realized I was looking for something that would last into perpetuity. A fish pond would do that—and more; it would be a living thing that would fill all my senses with pleasure. Now age 67, I felt I still had enough vigor in my overweight body to dig a pond and make my dream a reality. It was time. I mentioned my idea to my wife, who readily agreed and proposed hiring workers to do the job. I let the subject drop for the time being, realizing the pond was so deeply personal to me that I needed to handle it myself.
Dreams and the process of making them come true are a great source of happiness. As we get older, many of us have fewer dreams—we tend to accept where we are in life, to be more passive than active in making things happen. We may forget that joy comes as a reward for hard work—or we may just not have the energy to go for it. But joy can also come from an inspirational idea that has the power to enhance our lives. People relocate for many reasons—for a job, economic advantages, to be closer to family, to escape a bad relationship or support a good one. I chose the property for my new home because I envisioned transforming a trickle of water into a viable fish pond between two trees in a backyard. How many more chances would I have left in my life to fulfill my longtime dream? There is no doubt that joy is also the product of a happy spell; ask any Hindu in search of Nirvana.
Where did my fascination with and longing for a fish pond come from? Probably the idea was seeded in my imagination at a very young age when I read Turgenev’s Hunting Stories, which he wrote while living in the luxury of Paris, not the Jurassic-like endless Siberian forests. Since then, I always wanted to build a log cabin that faced a fish pond that would provide my daily meal. In reality, I am not a mountain man, a hunter or a fisherman, and I live—and prefer to live—in a house with modern conveniences. Still, Hemingway was inspired by the willingness of an octogenarian to prove his ability to fish big game and battle the wild elements, and he then wrote The Old man and the Sea. So, why I couldn’t I, far more humbly, keep a diary of my pond adventure, even without a hangover from cocktails named after myself?
So that’s what I did. Here is the story of my creating a fish pond.