Pond Fishing

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Franz's symbol of wisdom

It don't get any better. Fresh air, quiet, and your fishin hat pulled down till the ears stick out.


A steady breeze keeps causing the johnboat to drift into the weed bank. Billy Joe, the fellow working the oars, gets tired of having to quit fishing and row back to the middle of the pond. He drops the anchor, a concrete filled coffee can. 

“That’ll get’er,” he said to Odell. “Don’t like my fishin bothered.”

“Yup,” said Odell.

Spinner baits whisked through the air, and reals hummed. For hours the two enjoyed the quiet, the breeze, the swallows fetching dancing bugs over the water. 

“Odell,” said Billy Joe.

“Yup,” Odell responded.

“I’ve got some pondering to do,” said Billy Joe.

“Yea?”

“Yea I do.” Billy Joe shifted on his seat. “Ida May don’t say much.”

“Hum,” said Odell.

“Never did.”

“Yup never did,” Odell agreed.

“Been married nigh a dozen years now,” said Billy Joe, as he removed a treble hook from his latest catch.

“Nice one.”

“Yup”

The sun hid behind streaked clouds, ready to give up the day. A couple of bullfrogs started to contest for dominance in their claimed cove.

Going back to pondering, Billy Joe went on. “Yup, . . .  Ida May, you know, she don’t say much.”

“I know.”

“Hadn’t said word to me in eight months,” Billy Joe volunteered.

“Ah, hum, eight months,” said Odell.

“Yup, not a word,” said Billy Joe. He switched to a top water lure, gave it a whirl and watched it plop at the edge of the weed bank.

“Thinkin about divorce,” said Billy Joe.

“Why?” asked Odell.

“Well, you know . . . Don’t talk,” mumbled Billy Joe.

“Don't talk. . . So?” said Odell.

“Well, what's your take?” said Billy Joe.

“You know, a woman like Ida May is hard to find," said Odell, settling the matter.

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