We live by a Rutgers campus with a large open space that slopes down into an artificial pond that serves as a detention basin for stormwater run-off.
Artificial or not, it's a scenic pond. Passion Puddle, as it's known to the university community, is home to a number of carp, but also plays host to a flock of ducks, and provides water to a number of willows and other trees. A grated pipe lets the water pass under Lipman Drive, which runs in a loop around this open space, and down into a ravine before it tumbles into the Raritan River. I walk the dog past it almost every night during the summer, when the breeze carries away the heat of the day, and the water sparkles as it falls from the fountain and back to the surface of the pond.
Passion Puddle is a prominent feature of the local topography, so much that my girls have all asked at different points when they were young to go for walks there, to feed the ducks, or just to sit and watch them swim. Once we even saw a line of ducklings following their mother as she swam in the pond one June.
Naturally it's figured in the girls' imagination as well. When she was little our oldest daughter, fresh from watching "The Little Mermaid," talked about the time she and her mother had become mermaids and swam around there. Years later, after seeing demonstrations of a submersible craft there one Ag Field Day, she made up stories to entertain her youngest sister about the little people who live in the submarine in the pond.
It was inevitable that Youngest became fascinated with Passion Puddle as well, and called on me to fill in the gaps. I don't have much of an imagination, so I latched onto her older sister's notions of a mermaid, and told her that Passion Puddle is home to a mermaid named Bathilda who is from out in the ocean somewhere but lives in the pond while she takes classes at Rutgers.
Thankfully Youngest didn't ask what Bathilda is studying, but she did ask how the mermaid keeps in touch with her family. Turtle mail, I explained: A turtle picks up Bathilda's mail and takes it down the ravine to the river, and then out to sea, before returning with letters and packages from home.
Like I said, not very imaginative, but it was good enough for her, and when she saw a turtle a few day later, that was all the confirmation she needed. Months later, she was still spinning her own tales about Bathilda.
A boy drowned in Passion Puddle about 10 years ago when he went swimming there to escape the June heat and got his feet stuck in the mud. Mindful of this, I told her that it's never a good idea to visit the mermaid in the pond, and if she ever got the urge to drop in on Bathilda or if Bathilda asked her to, she should ignore it. Mermaids are like Jenny Greenteeth: Avoid them, they are not your friends.
It was a few nights ago that I was taking the dog around Lipman Drive before turning in for the night. I haven't been sleeping well lately, for whatever reason, and I was exhausted. There was a nice breeze, though, and although the days hadn't become especially warm yet, there was something soothing about the feeling of the breeze and the calm susurrus of the leaves almost had a lyrical quality to it. It was a peaceful night, the moon's reflection was sailing across the pond, and the water from the fountain glittered like a thousand tiny jewels as it fell.
It was a perfect night to walk out onto the green, take a seat on one of the benches by the pond and enjoy the cool air for a while.
You know how some spring nights feel almost too beautiful for this world? This was one of them. There was nobody else around, just the insects in the trees making their music, and before long it seemed as though the night was singing to me, calling me forward, and telling me to sleep, to relax and let all my worries go.
It was my dog that ruined the moment.
One moment, everything was peaceful and at rest, and the next thing I knew, Loki was growling and snarling like a dog possessed. He pulled so hard that his leash slipped from my hand, and he lunged toward the water with a fury I have never seen before, and hope I never do again. At home and with the girls, he is as gentle as can be, but in that moment he was all teeth and snarls as he rushed at and wrestled with I don't know what.
And then the moment passed. Something I could't quite see slipped into the water and disappeared, and Loki returned to my side. He rubbed his head against my hip, and I scratched his ears. There were tears in my eyes as though I had just lost something beautiful, but at the same time I felt an indescribable debt of gratitude to him that I couldn't explain.
We finished our walk and went home. Every night as we go past Passion Puddle, a part of me tells me to linger a little while and treasure the sight, but if I try, Loki blocks my way, and pulls his way down the street.
Artificial or not, it's a scenic pond. Passion Puddle, as it's known to the university community, is home to a number of carp, but also plays host to a flock of ducks, and provides water to a number of willows and other trees. A grated pipe lets the water pass under Lipman Drive, which runs in a loop around this open space, and down into a ravine before it tumbles into the Raritan River. I walk the dog past it almost every night during the summer, when the breeze carries away the heat of the day, and the water sparkles as it falls from the fountain and back to the surface of the pond.
Passion Puddle is a prominent feature of the local topography, so much that my girls have all asked at different points when they were young to go for walks there, to feed the ducks, or just to sit and watch them swim. Once we even saw a line of ducklings following their mother as she swam in the pond one June.
Naturally it's figured in the girls' imagination as well. When she was little our oldest daughter, fresh from watching "The Little Mermaid," talked about the time she and her mother had become mermaids and swam around there. Years later, after seeing demonstrations of a submersible craft there one Ag Field Day, she made up stories to entertain her youngest sister about the little people who live in the submarine in the pond.
It was inevitable that Youngest became fascinated with Passion Puddle as well, and called on me to fill in the gaps. I don't have much of an imagination, so I latched onto her older sister's notions of a mermaid, and told her that Passion Puddle is home to a mermaid named Bathilda who is from out in the ocean somewhere but lives in the pond while she takes classes at Rutgers.
Thankfully Youngest didn't ask what Bathilda is studying, but she did ask how the mermaid keeps in touch with her family. Turtle mail, I explained: A turtle picks up Bathilda's mail and takes it down the ravine to the river, and then out to sea, before returning with letters and packages from home.
Like I said, not very imaginative, but it was good enough for her, and when she saw a turtle a few day later, that was all the confirmation she needed. Months later, she was still spinning her own tales about Bathilda.
A boy drowned in Passion Puddle about 10 years ago when he went swimming there to escape the June heat and got his feet stuck in the mud. Mindful of this, I told her that it's never a good idea to visit the mermaid in the pond, and if she ever got the urge to drop in on Bathilda or if Bathilda asked her to, she should ignore it. Mermaids are like Jenny Greenteeth: Avoid them, they are not your friends.
It was a few nights ago that I was taking the dog around Lipman Drive before turning in for the night. I haven't been sleeping well lately, for whatever reason, and I was exhausted. There was a nice breeze, though, and although the days hadn't become especially warm yet, there was something soothing about the feeling of the breeze and the calm susurrus of the leaves almost had a lyrical quality to it. It was a peaceful night, the moon's reflection was sailing across the pond, and the water from the fountain glittered like a thousand tiny jewels as it fell.
It was a perfect night to walk out onto the green, take a seat on one of the benches by the pond and enjoy the cool air for a while.
You know how some spring nights feel almost too beautiful for this world? This was one of them. There was nobody else around, just the insects in the trees making their music, and before long it seemed as though the night was singing to me, calling me forward, and telling me to sleep, to relax and let all my worries go.
It was my dog that ruined the moment.
One moment, everything was peaceful and at rest, and the next thing I knew, Loki was growling and snarling like a dog possessed. He pulled so hard that his leash slipped from my hand, and he lunged toward the water with a fury I have never seen before, and hope I never do again. At home and with the girls, he is as gentle as can be, but in that moment he was all teeth and snarls as he rushed at and wrestled with I don't know what.
And then the moment passed. Something I could't quite see slipped into the water and disappeared, and Loki returned to my side. He rubbed his head against my hip, and I scratched his ears. There were tears in my eyes as though I had just lost something beautiful, but at the same time I felt an indescribable debt of gratitude to him that I couldn't explain.
We finished our walk and went home. Every night as we go past Passion Puddle, a part of me tells me to linger a little while and treasure the sight, but if I try, Loki blocks my way, and pulls his way down the street.
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