March 2004                                            The Megaphone                                         Page 3

Down by  the Old Mill Pond

Part 2

by R. Beeman

This is a continuation of the story about the draining of the Old Mill Pond. I will only use first names when referring to the other participants to protect them from any embarrassment they might have about my revelations of their involvement. But knowing them as I do, I doubt if they
would care or maybe even enjoy hearing the tale retold.

After two weeks had passed, and not one of us had heard anything or read anything in the local
paper, we felt it was safe to go check on our handiwork So Bob, Art, Dan, and myself ventured back to the Old Mill to view the results of our efforts. We were unprepared for what we were about to
observe.

Before us instead of the eight foot deep pond that we knew as a repository for untold numbers of fish, turtles, frogs and snakes, there lay only several small puddles of water. Gone were the giant
catfish. Gone were the dishpan sized turtles and there was not a trace of the snakes and frogs only the wriggling of the small Blue Gill left trapped in the puddles that remained. We stepped carefully out onto the now dry bottom of the pond and wandered from one small puddle to another, carefully checking for any large fish that might be left. There were none.

It was with a sense of regret we left the Mill Pond knowing that there would never be any more late night fishing trips planned on the spur of the moment after a good rain after which we would scour the back yard with flashlights for night crawlers, we enjoyed the feeling of just being together, like
most young teens. 

There is a sense of belonging that only comes from being raised in a small town neighborhood like the south end of Elwood. And like the water that moved from the Mill Pond into the Creek and from the Creek to the River and then finally to the Ocean, it's final destination. Time passes and we continue to move on in our lives always moving farther from our roots and childhood relationships. But like the water, we pass through new country, some of it beautiful, some not but always moving towards our own final destination, I can only speak for myself so far the trip has been worthwhile. 

But sometimes I wish I could go back to the Old Mill Pond.
                    

Submitted by . . .

R. Beeman '54
Out in Old Witch Hollow