My brothers and I grew up rambling. Back in the 1960’s there were no cell phones, no iPods, no computer games, no DVD’s, and parents didn’t let their kids sit in front of the TV for hours on end. If the sun was up, we were either in school, in church, or outside.
Truth be told, you can’t blame the teachers for the way we were, they tried their best. And if the Pastor with God as his strong right arm was ineffectual in civilizing my brothers and I, certainly the teachers hadn’t a hope of success.
So ramble we did.
We hiked the hills; gigged frogs in the creeks and arroyos when we weren’t catching crawfish; rode bikes over every road, trail, and open field in the valley; and generally lived high, wide, and handsome.
One of our favorite afternoon activities was to grab up our fishing gear and head out to Old Man Baranus’ place to go fishing in his pond. The Baranus place was what was left of a large cattle ranch that had once spread over thousands of acres on the south side of the valley. The original Homestead had been built right in the arroyo that edged the southeastern boundary of our town proper.
There along the edges of the water, the original Spanish land-grant holder had built among what were probably already full grown elm trees. Sitting quiet in the shade with the cool water flowing near the house must have been a great joy back in the day before swamp-coolers and air conditioners. Specially in our valley were summertime temperatures often saw the high side of 115 degrees. Over the years, the trees had grown ever larger, the original adobe was replaced by a big multi-storied clapboard Victorian house, barns and sheds were built, and most attractive of all, a pond was scraped out of the arroyo banks.
Originally that pond must have filled and flushed as each heavy rain filled the creek and then would sit full the remainder of the year waiting for the flood of rains again. Over the years the creek channel shifted and the pond was completely cut off from the arroyo, but winter rains and the lay of the land kept the pond full and healthy.
At some point, whether naturally or intentionally stocked, that pond had become home to an amazing array of critters. There were Red-winged blackbirds, ducks, pheasant, muskrat, and foxes that all called the pond home. Many trails led out of the arroyo and under the barb wire towards the pond. Trails that promised adventures to boys like us.
The pond itself must have covered eight or ten acres, with thick cattail rushes bounding most of the shoreline and a few giant elm trees as well. Here and there the cattails thinned down and you could stand right up next to the water’s edge.
Well, I think you could anyway; I never tried. You see, although my brothers and I fished that pond regularly, we never asked permission, and so standing up bold and bright there at the edge of the water wasn’t a good idea. Specially since Old Man Baranus didn’t allow people on his property.
Every kid in town knew that you didn’t fish that pond. Every kid in town either tried, or claimed to have tried to sneak through the strands of Barb wire and up to the edge of the pond. Every parent in town told their kids to stay off of that property. And most every kid in town listened, and followed the rules.
But, my brothers and I weren’t much like every other kid in town. That pond just seemed to call out to us. Sure as the sun rises in the morning, that pond seeped into our thoughts.
Walking the arroyo in the evening you could hear the fish jumping in that pond; could hear the frogs calling out; and you just knew that you had to go there. All the town kids would talk about someday sneaking through the fence, some of them tried once or twice, but I never knew anyone other than my brothers and I that actually went to that pond several times a week and dared to pull fish and frogs from that pool of water.
The fishing was great. You didn’t even have to bait the hook. Just cast a golden hook out into that pond and some hungry blue-gill or bass would come nosing around and sample it. Filling a sack of pan fish for dinner was never a problem at that pond, at least not hard when it came to the catching. The only real difficult part about fishing that pond, was casting while lying down behind a log or from around behind a tree.
You see, Old Man Baranus didn’t just ask people not to come onto his property, he pretty much insisted. And while we three were persistent, he was retired. And being retired he had all day to invest in some hobby or other.
His favorite hobby seemed to be to sit up in the hay loft of the barn and shoot rock salt at us kids who fished his pond.
But there is a funny thing to that; we boys seemed to take all that flying rock salt as more of a challenge than a deterrent.
Nothing fills you quite so full of life as running from death does.
We would sneak out there day after day, ducking, crawling, and doing our best to fill a sack of fish before Old Man Baranus caught sight of us and started to unload.
With the first whistling in the air of salt on the wing, we would grab up our stuff, leap to our feet and race for the barb wire fence line. Sometimes the fence barbs got us as we tried to clear the strands; sometimes the salt stung the last largest part headed over the top strand and on those occasions we had to pick it out of each other’s back, or rump; and once in a while we would even get clear unscathed.
Looking back on it all these years later, I don’t think I’ve ever eaten any fish that was quite so well seasoned as that we fried up after a trip out to Old Man Baranus’ pond.
Maybe it was because of all that salt flying around.
Copyright © 2012 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved
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