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The Newsletter >
When Noah Dug a Pond
August 28, 2009
When Mr. Medina decided to dredge his pond out, a pond with a three-inch film of evil green slime and the bones of a bison carcass protruding from the exposed muck, we—his next-door neighbors—mocked, scoffed, and scorned. It had not rained for a very long time here in Florida, being the dry season, and all. We were skeptical, a skepticism that bordered on snarkiness.
It hadn’t rained in so long, that Zoe, an observant five-year old grand-girl, wanted to know why the whole world was “crunchy.” We called Mr. Medina’s pond project “Medina’s folly.”
Smirking, we watched when the pumps, emptied out the remaining dregs of green scum and slime from the old pond. Ducks swam across Mr. Medina’s pasture through the pumped out remnants of leftover pond water. We laughed when the giant digger machine arrived to scratch and scoop out, what appeared to be—easily—a twenty-five to six hundred foot deep hole directly to the center of the earth.
I chortled while trying to get my dog (who has an irrational fear of giant digger machines) to relax long enough to “go potty” as the machine belched and burped its way deeper and deeper into the bowls of the earth.
Without remorse and feeling superior, I remarked, “That is going to be the biggest glass half empty in the world.”
When the private investigator in the Hawaiian shirt showed up asking questions about my neighbor, Mr. Medina, I sold him out, if not immediately, then pretty close to immediately.
The man, with a New Jersey accent, and wearing one crazy floral print of a shirt, asked, “Does Mr. Medina still reside next-door, to the best of your knowledge?”
“Who wants to know?” I’m not a complete push over.
He was pretty sweaty when he admitted, “I’m a private investigator.”
“Nice shirt.” I did not ask for identification. The shirt was enough for me.
He frowned and said, “I just need to make sure that Mr. Medina lives over there.” He pointed, sweat dripping from his pointer finger. It had not rained in a long, dry time. I squinted into the sinking blaze of the hot raw sun.
That sweaty finger got to me.
I said, “Yep, he lives there and he’s digging the mother of all holes in his back yard—plenty deep enough to throw a body into; if you know what I mean?” I paused and winked. “I don’t know if that helps, but there it is.”
The private investigator blinked sweat out of his eyes, thanked me, did not take notes, and left. Later, I wondered if the private investigator had actually been 1) a spy 2) an assassin 3 ) a retired KGB agent, or 4) a county hole inspector. I suffer from an excess of imagination. No more was heard on the subject.
It became a family habit on Sunday afternoons to stand at the fence separating Mr. Medina’s property from our property and stare into the enormous empty hole and say things like, “Keep on eye on Mrs. Medina.”
“How many of those little bottles of water do you think it’s going to take? We’ve got a pool going—no pun intended.”
“If we find our garden hoses missing, we’ll know who took ‘em.”
You know, smart aleck stuff like that.
On the day the giant digger machine finished, it began to rain, and did not stop until Mr. Medina’s hole filled to the brim, allowing ducks to swim in lazy circles across its surface, their chubby bodies dipping and splashing in an excess of water fowl frolic.
Last Sunday, from under an umbrella with a Mickey Mouse cartoon on it, and while watching a mother duck and her twelve baby ducks sail regally across the pond, our family admired the gentle waves caused by a soft summer breeze that rippled the surface of the now brimming hole. Rain pockmarked the water. Waves lapped at the edges of the pond. There were no snarky comments, no snide hectoring—only awe and admiration.
Phillip said, “He knew. Somehow he knew that the rain would come.”
Adam said, “It’s like living next to Noah.”
I sighed, “Wow! Imagine how I feel. I ratted Noah out to a private investigator.”
“Oh ye, of little faith, wait and watch for the coming of the summer rains in due season and dig while you can still find the shovel and before the neighbors tattle.” (Book of Zern 5: 21)
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