Pond Sure (or Dances With Dragonflies)

It turns out that water magic and boneyard magic are not limited to the sea. 

I suspected as much and perhaps the real truth is that wherever you are, there they are too. 

I'm pretty sure that will turn out to be the truth. 

I will have fun proving it.

There is a place, not far from here, where the magic runs deep. 

I can't tell you how to get there (or I'd have to kill you),

but I will take you there if you want to go. 

You'll have to be quiet and you can't disturb the naked ladies. 

Promise?

Close your eyes and breathe deeply. Once. Twice.

There.

Can you smell it?  

Dust. Dry pine needles. 

Grass and old wood.
Forest.
Wet dock and pond muck.
Fresh coffee.
The all's-right-with-the-world scent of it all blended together
and baking in eighty-four degree July sunshine.
And, okay, when nature calls, a tiny hint of eau de outhouse. 

Yeah. It's that kind of place. 

You can hear the wind in the pines and scrub oaks, 

the drone of a distant plane,

water lapping at the edges of the pond,

an occasional fish breaking the surface ,

the buzz of insects . . .

 And when you are floating silently in an inner tube, you can hear the dragonflies. 

So many dragonflies! 

It's maybe an acre. 

Maybe two. 

Do you measure a pond in acres? 

I don't know. 

Remember Bramasole in 'Under The Tuscan Sun'? 

"The land it takes two oxen two days to plow"? 

This is "The pond it takes about 30 minutes to lazily circumnavigate in a paddleboat". 

It's green (a healthy green, I was assured),

 has bluegill, channel and bullhead catfish, yellow perch, black crappie, large mouth bass,

bazillions of tiny, baby fish,

a 58 year-old, 4-foot long sturgeon named Daisy

and one bad ass catfish that. as of yesterday, is swimming around with a hook in it's mouth and towing a yellow and red float.

The cabin . . .  a very simple, two-story building. 

Everything it needs to be and nothing it doesn't.

Built by a father, now gone. 

Cherished by his daughter. 

No plumbing. 

There's a pull-start generator if you REALLY need to inflate that air mattress (we did),

a luxurious propane-heated outdoor sink/shower, fed from an up-hill water reservoir

and a deck that looks out over the pond -

perfect for outdoor sleeping under a nearly full moon.

And did I mention the outhouse? 

A deluxe, two-seater 

with copies of Finding Her Here and Warning on the wall . . .

and awesomely bad art scattered along the path from the cabin.

Next to the cabin is a home-made, rough-hewn bar with stumps for chairs 

a red, white and blue pinwheel 

and a battery powered iHome. 

The red wine, margaritas, whiskey and Izze flow freely. 

You don't have to drink

but you do have to answer the beige, push-button phone if it rings. 

There's no cord.  

But you never know. . .

(I told you the magic runs deep).

The occasion is an annual-if-we-can-get-our-shit-together gathering of dear friends. 

We couldn't quite remember if we've done this two or three times before. 

Last year it didn't happen at all. 

On a good year there could be a dozen of us. 

This year there were six and a 9-week old baby Bug (Boston Terrier/Pug mix). 

We gather, we eat, we drink, we laugh, we cry, and we play in the water. 

One year we wrote and moved each other to tears as each shared her story. 

This year's escapades included

topless SUPing, 

 naked inner-tube floating 

and a late night gab session under an almost full moon. 

We toasted Ilene's Willow Dock with Prosecco and grapefruit Izze. . .

and it was from Ilene's dock that the catfish made his dramatic escape.

It's a one-night event that goes by much too fast. 

All too soon one of us has to leave for work, 

someone else for a family commitment, 

someone else for a birthday party. . . 

I had no appointments and no particular agenda. 

So, in exchange for promising to haul out the garbage, I snagged a couple solitary hours in this beautiful place.

I won't give it all away, 

but I will say that every middle-aged woman 

deserves to be 

a naked goddess in her own private Eden 

for a day.

You CAN dance with dragonflies.

The bones will find you wherever you look for them. 

The magic will happen. 

And if, tomorrow, it seems more like a dream . . . 

I'll have the sunburned breasts to prove it.

PS The dragonfly photos are courtesy of Google search and accurately depict the amazing dragonflies we saw this weekend. I had no idea there were red dragonflies!