Photograph of bluebells by LeAnn Spencer
Meadowbrook
You’re artificial, it must be said. Man-made. To be exact, six men laboring half a day, seven tons of rocks (which they tossed easily to one another, careless of bare fingers). Water – 600 gallons. Thus you came to be; your generic name water feature.
Void of life, save for weekly infusions of bacteria, you soon went to work with the sun growing algae: floating, sticking, streaming algae. Your efforts not valued, we fought the impossibly green slime coating every stone. Meanwhile, we dreamed of other life you would one day hold.
Robins were first to discover the running bath of your shallow streambed. Then other birds: a dozen goldfinches, a flock of red-winged blackbirds – each species adhering to its assigned time.
In December, when your main pond froze over, we again took offense, beating your protective skin with sledgehammer and ax, cheering at each breach of your defenses. (By the next winter, we had learned and let you slumber in peace under your cover.)
At last, spring, and we added plants. Then five goldfish, stirred into the mix. Your first frog we named Oliver, for the poet. (Ollie, memorialized as hero in a long-running bedtime story for grandchildren.)
A toad took residence in the filter well, hunkered in dark safety under the manhole lid. His insistent song was rewarded, and soon tadpoles swarmed the pond. In time, the tadpoles disappeared, food for fish, or birds, who knows. Once, a snake appeared and slithered across the upper pond – mouth open, hunting mode.
Of the fish, now Yaak and Otto remain, along with the young (looking every bit like baby bluegill).
Your fourth winter approaches. Dumpy, the statue turtle, hibernates indoors awaiting another season to attract one of his kind.
We worry over the small fish, at the same time repeating our mantra of nature and her way. We wonder if the mallard pair will be back for another April, and what new creatures will make their way to you, and who will birth there?
Water feature, long since born Meadowbrook.
Fish-Eye View
I am Otto, and in my third season here, I am the oldest. There were five of us brought together to Meadowbrook, but I was the only one who lasted long enough to receive a name. That first summer, the plants were sparse with only the overhang of stone for a hiding place. We took shelter in that cave when shadows passed over us. It was good having room to move, and it was good having daylight and nighttime, too. As the daylight grew shorter and the water cooled, we lost the desire to zip from corner to corner. We no longer nibbled at algae or anything else. Finally, all energy slipped away as the winter slumber settled over us.
Eventually, as days became longer, the sun warmed the water enough that I felt like moving. I was alone now; the others had not been big enough to survive the winter. In the late spring, a few more plants appeared. Then, at the peak of summer, two new Fish – koi – splashed down into my midst. In due time, He and She bestowed names on the newcomers. She, especially, has been eager to name us all. Even the cast-iron turtle that sits on a rock, forever gazing down at us, has a name: Dumpy. Mott got his name because of his mottled coloring, mostly shades of green. I always thought he had an easy time concealing himself in the deep pool. Yaak could not be more different in appearance with his iridescent yellow scales. He no more blends in than I do in my stark orange skin. The three of us stuck close together, and most of the time, we felt safe. There was plenty to eat, with the brown pellets landing morning and evening. For a few weeks there were tadpoles – a treat! And there was algae. Always algae.
Summer deepened and gradually turned to brown season. Black walnuts plopped into the water, and leaves floated in until the surface was covered. Mott and Yaak would survive the approaching season of sleep, I was sure. They were strong and big enough; Yaak had already grown bigger than I. And so it was that we huddled together in the deepness and knew nothing more until spring warmth returned. We were jolted from our lingering torpor when two men arrived and lowered a fat hose that sucked the water out from around us. He and She stood by the workers, peering in. He shouted, “All the fish survived!” The men scooped us out with a net and dropped us into a tub. When we were returned to the pond later, the water was crystal clear, the stones smoothed of algae.
It was later in the spring that Mott sickened suddenly. He and She must have been away; a stranger was tossing the food to us each day (never speaking or lingering, as they did, to watch us eat). Mott got weaker and struggled to swim down to the cave. Finally, he rolled over and stayed floating on the surface. During the night, there was a sudden splash, something hitting the water. In the light of morning, no trace of Mott remained.
Quite soon, Yaak and I got another new companion. Still missing Mott, I welcomed the new arrival who brought with her the indifferent name “Fish.” Her busy people had grown tired of caring for her and scrubbing her glass tank. Also a goldfish, she was about the same size I was. They had some trouble telling us apart. Not content with a name chosen by others, they christened her Goldy Fish and made her theirs.
Perhaps they decided that it wasn’t enough just to watch us swimming or lurking, watch us retrieve the pellets they tossed into the water. It started with the two of them holding a pellet at the surface and waiting. Eventually, they would toss a few onto the water. After we got used to this, we started getting closer to the fingers holding the pellet. Eventually, we took the food right from the hands. I was first. They would speak to us as we touched their fingers, and they brought visitors to watch. It seemed to please them. Sometimes they would feed us this way even when it wasn’t feeding time. It got so that whenever they came near, we would swim to the shallows at the edge on the chance of a bonus. Usually we were rewarded.
To Goldy, the pond was just a big aquarium. Approaching footsteps meant only one thing: feeding time. Hearing a snuffling presence skirting the pond, even though it was long past nightfall, she was up to the shallow shore in a moment. One swipe into the water, and long claws dug in and whisked her away.
It was only a few days later when they first spotted some of the fry. “Baby fish!” She whisper-shrieked. It was many days more before all seven had been noticed. They are well-camouflaged for now, Goldy’s and my offspring. They will not turn orange for another year. I wonder if they will grow enough in the few months before the coming sleep season.
He and She have ceased their efforts to feed us by hand, though they kept it up for several more days after we lost Goldy. What else have they learned?
Copyright © 2008 Sherry Stratton. All rights reserved.