Place 1: Sitting Beside Chatham Pond

It is 2:40 p.m. Thursday, Sept. 4 and I am sitting on a small bench by the pond near Lindsay House at Chatham University. A cool breeze brushes my cheeks, a pleasant feeling on a warm day as I enjoy a shaded spot beneath a tree. What type of tree this is, I cannot say. But the leaves remind me of maple leaves, so perhaps I sit beneath a very large maple tree. Whether maple or another type, I find this tree to be very attractive with a knotted trunk, sturdy branches and plenty of room for birds to build nests.

Sitting here at the pond’s edge, I cannot ignore the sound of the fountain spewing water pitifully from its spout. I expect that the fountain must be very old and in need of minor repair since its ability to send water soaring in a wide arc remains nonexistent. However, I welcome the sound of droplets smacking the water’s surface, creating ripples that shimmer above tiny fish. Some fish are as small as minnows and others slightly larger and orange as goldfish. I must admit, I would not like to be a fish in this pond. Murky water dotted with leaf bits, twigs and bubbles is not my idea of a nice home. In fact, the pond water disgusts me. If I stuck my head deep into the middle—wearing goggles and a swimming cap, of course—I doubt I would be able to see one foot away from myself.

Although the water appears disgusting, it actually comforts me somewhat. It reminds me of my grandfather’s pond in Michigan. As a child, I used to visit my grandparents regularly every summer. They owned about eight acres of land on which they grew gardens full of vegetables, fruits, flowers as well as a small orchard. Beyond the gardens was a large pond, about four times the size of Chatham’s pond. My grandfather’s pond was also murky and dyed a strange blue-green caused by the chemicals he used to control weeds. My mother told me stories about how when she was young she used to swim in the pond on hot summer days and ice skate on its icy surface on cold winter days. Once, when I was about ten-years-old, I dipped my foot into the water near a shallow edge. I felt something silty caress my toes. I descended my foot further, searching for a firm bottom, but could not find it. Instead, my foot sank deeply into a squishy substance that felt nothing like mud. That was the last time I set foot or toe in my grandfather’s pond.

A clock somewhere just chimed three times. It must be 3 p.m. Since I rarely spend much time sitting outside on campus grounds, I never realized that Chatham has a chiming clock. I imagine that it is located in the chapel. When I lived in Ann Arbor, Michigan, I used to hear the clock tower chime every hour as I walked through the university. At noon, it would play music briefly, nothing very unusual but I always thought the tunes were pretty. I wonder if Chatham’s clock plays music. I have a feeling it merely chimes, but the birds that have started chirping just now near the pond are music enough for now.

Just as I am about to pack up my things to head home, a pair of squirrels—one black, one brown—ran alongside my seat and up the base of the tree. I am not sure if they are playing tag or expressing their anger toward one another. But I think they might be friends. They chase each other to the very tips of branches where they wait for their next move as they continue a staring contest. They linger with a steady patience seemingly content, and I wish more people were like that.