Berkley Pond

A work of creative nonfiction
by Linda Simone

At dawn, I emerge from the woods into a clearing. Before me this figure-eight pond stands in the circle formed by Taunton and Tinsdale Roads. Thick brush protects it. Except for a chorus of bullfrogs and ducks, the air is stone still and I'm the only person in sight.

About twelve years ago, I accidentally happened upon Berkley Pond in Scarsdale, just a five-minute walk from my Eastchester home. To me, the pond looked big enough to be a small lake. A legion of willows stood sentinel, and three wooden footbridges arched across its expanse. Like a homing pigeon, I have made it my daily destination ever since.

One reason I walk is because I need the solitude. I cannot think clearly when there is a lot of noise. My husband operates differently, turns on the TV at ear-shattering decibels as soon as he walks into the house. Berkley Pond has been good for our marriage.

This pond has become my body of water, like Thoreau's Walden or Yeats' Lake Isle of Innisfree. And like Yeats, I, too, revel in its nine-bean-rows details because, as they say, that is where God is. I love the pond best when the sun first tops the Osage Orange tree with its strange, brainlike fruit hanging like beads. Ghosts of sun-speckled mansions, prim azaleas, and rainbows of impatiens wave to me from the pond's surface. In the pure morning light, everything seems to belong, including me. But today, two weeks after we put our house on the market, the sky lightens in barely perceptible degrees, and I am still in the dark.

Why are we moving? I ask a cardinal that flits by. We are healthy and retirement is years away. Our son Justin is still home, working days and attending evening college classes. And, despite cataracts, our fifteen-year-old dog Charley maneuvers around quite well.

Why are we creating change when change isn't necessary? One reason is that my husband is in love with change. In twenty-seven years of marriage, Joe has held five jobs and cultivated three distinct careers. I have only wanted to be a writer.

After every vacation, whether to Chicago, Bilbao, or Toms River, New Jersey, he says, "I could live there!" pointing a finger as if "there" were two feet in front of him. And when he says this, something inside me tightens—because I know he means it. In fact, it is incredible that we've marked eighteen years living in the same place.

But I was the one who set this change in motion. "I can't take this job anymore," I complained again, exhausted by deadlines and the frenetic pace of being the editorial director for a nonprofit organization.

"You don't have to. Let's sell the house, reduce our bills," Joe offered, gently kneading my tight shoulders. "Then you can quit that job."

It seemed a simple solution. But a year ago, after getting a real estate appraisal, it was clear I was not ready. Now, a year later, I say I am. But I worry about striking a balance in a new environment. I worry about losing Berkley Pond.

Today, I watch the ripples set in motion by wind or the landing of Canada geese. I imagine thread-thin concentric circles around tiny bugs lighting on the water's surface. Sometimes the smallest step can set off a chain reaction.

I walk past the only empty house on the pond's perimeter, recalling my single meeting last year with the home's owner. In her L.L. Bean T-shirt, she was watering a frenzy of pink chiffon irises.

"Isn't it a lovely morning?" she called to me as I padded by, my head tilted upward.

I stopped, put my hands in my pockets. "Remarkable!"

"I'm Florence." She stepped into the road, closer to where I stood. Her peach garden gloves were smudged with dirt.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Linda."

During my walks, social interaction usually meant an occasional nod. But perhaps because Florence lived in the only non-manicured property on Berkley Pond, I felt a little conversation was not intrusive.

"Your garden looks English," I said. "Those irises are exquisite."

"My husband will be pleased to hear that. He does most of the gardening—although I'm sure the neighbors would prefer we had a gardener." She stopped the spray of the hose with a twist of the nozzle. "The iris bulbs were his mother's. They're fifty years old. He tends them like his babies."

Those irises were the same age I was.

Today, as I approach the pond, it hits me how quickly the scent of lilac has been replaced by honeysuckle. In two weeks time, we have a bid on our house with a backup to boot. Suddenly I realize I failed to see the irises come up. I notice that the lace curtains that once filled Florence's windows are down and the red Ford is missing. Had she or her husband gotten ill? Had they moved? Did her husband uproot his mother's irises, pack up the bulbs in a cardboard box? Would the delicate flowers survive the transition?

At Berkley Pond, although the honeysuckle still lingers, I know the woodsy aroma of fall is around the corner. And once the trees have strewn their jewels, we will be in another place.

A single white egret stands like a question mark at the water's marshy edge. Seeing me, he stalks off for solitude. And yet I am driven to stomp a foot to witness his graceful flight to the opposite shore.

Copyright 2006 by Linda Simone