On Goldfish Pond

I was six years old and it must have been summertime. It must have been summertime, because this seemed to be the time of year when most of us kids were getting into the worst possible trouble. On this particular day, I was out and about with my sister and our two best friends, Angelo and Keisha from down the street. We were a gang of ragamuffins who terrorized C Street with our laughter and good times that were naturally birthed through simply growing up in the country. Today we were particularly focused on any type of mischief we could get into that involved the house at the end of the street.
The house at the end of the street was owned by an elderly white woman who just seemed as if she had a lot of money because of the milky color of her skin. Along with this, to a pint-sized, six-year old kid like me, her three-story house seemed like a veritable mansion. I imagined that there were armed guards that manned her door and a maid and a butler who waited on every member of her house, hand and foot. This was because although I was one of the poor girls who spent her summers in the two-story house down at the other end of the block, at six-years old, I knew something of how the other half lived.
I can’t recall what the rich, white woman’s name was, but she always looked so well put together that we just referred to her as Ma’am. We kids would always pass by her house on the way to the corner store to get some lemon heads or baked beans or some such candy that we could buy in bulk with just the coins that jingled in our pockets. However, on this particular day instead of just passing by Ma’am’s house we found ourselves passing through Ma’am’s yard.
This was not just any ordinary yard, though. This yard was huge. To a pint-sized, six-year old it seemed to contain a whole forest full of trees instead of the four or five that actually littered the yard and created the beautiful scenery. Ma’am had a large, decorated shed that looked more like a beautiful storage barn. But, the pecan trees and the shed were not what attracted us ragamuffins. You see, Ma’am had something in her yard that we African-American kids had never before seen in any one’s yard. It was so interesting that I couldn’t even fathom the other half owning such an oddity. It was a pond filled with goldfish.
This pond was absolutely breathtaking to the six-year old eye. It looked like a small swimming pool, but it had orange looking fish in it. Someone had gone through an awful lot of trouble to make this pond which was a cemented white structure built into the ground with decorative flowers surrounding it. That same someone had taken even greater care to place various sized goldfish that darted here and there, in the clear, flowing water. The colors of the fish were so deep and beautiful, they made the gang and me think that we could reach out and catch one and bring it home with us. The colors invited us for a closer look on this particular day, and so as true members of the ragamuffin gang, my friends and I set out to catch one of Ma’am’s fish. After all, how hard could it be to pull a brightly colored fish out of a pond that had been built into a backyard?
Well, we all tried to grab at the fish, but our tiny hands were no match for the slippery vertebrates. The goldfish managed to elude capture even though eight small hands splashed and splashed at the water. I knew Ma’am had to know that we were trespassing on her property but in all of our escapades on her land, she never said a word. She must have enjoyed the sight. Four little kids splashing for goldfish in a pond. We must have looked plain silly to a grown-up.
Once we realized that catching even one goldfish for a possible prize was going to be nearly impossible, we decided to play a game of sheer bravery and athletics and jump over the pond. We were young at heart and restless, indeed. So, we each took turns jumping, yelling, and laughing and making a show of our courage and our physical prowess. I can’t quite remember whether I gave myself a running start or not, but I do remember that my legs didn’t quite go as far as I had calculated and in I went. Into the cold pond water that housed so many goldfish. So there I was. A quivering and shivering mess in my shorts, t-shirt, and sneakers. I tried to jump out quickly, but the water that soaked through my body weighed me down and made me feel rather sluggish. I am sure that there was laughter and we continued to play throughout the day. However, I had learned my lesson. I realized that scenery was meant to be looked at and appreciated. That day, I got to know the goldfish in the pond a little too well. It was interesting, but not all that fun to a pint-sized six-year old kid. And although, I know she saw me, through it all, Ma’am never said a word.





Finding my green stone early in life wasn’t too hard at all. I found it through a personal relationship with a wonderful woman that most people called Mrs. Sanders. To me, though, she was grandma. I was about 10 years old when two things happened to me at the same time. I noticed my crooked teeth in my mouth and realized how loving and caring my grandmother was. People would call me bucktooth but grandma never drew attention to my shortcomings. She had a way of talking to you that made you feel alright. She was a slender and delicately framed woman with a tender touch. She used to tell me that the kids would tease her by calling her six o’ clock because she was so skinny and tall. I felt closer to my grandmother when she let me in on the secret that she wasn’t perfect either. Just being in her presence let me know that I was loved. She played Bid Whiz, Gin, and Pokeeno with the people that she cared about. Playing Pokeeno with my grandmother always made me feel safe and special. It was the avenue that helped me enjoy life and love being loved. It was the avenue that allowed my green stone to shine its brightest.
Even now, memories of my grandmother allow me to re-experience the comfort and joy she gave me. Every summer, I would visit my grandmother in New Bern, North Carolina. Those summers were beautiful, just like my grandmother. My grandmother lived in a two-story house that was painted white. Somehow, the fact that her house was painted white made me feel that my grandmother was rich even though she never had much money. Some of her floors were bare and some were carpeted. Most of her dishes consisted of jelly jars used as drinking glasses and old tubs of Parkay margarine serving as Tupperware substitutes. But even though she wasn’t rich monetarily, she was rich at heart.
Old, but familiar and very sweet smells clung to the walls and draperies of my grandmother’s two-story white house. Those sweet smells could hug you and remind you of grandma’s presence even when she wasn’t around. But being around grandma was quite a nice feeling. I remember when the smells of grandma’s cooking would waft through the house, moving from room to room enticing all children and visitors alike to come and eat their fill. Scrumptious odors of smothered pork chops, fried catfish, collard greens, homemade biscuits, and chicken and pastry invited everyone to come and enjoy the down-home cooking of Essie Mae Sanders. She was a woman with a big heart. Willingly, she often took in stray cats and dogs and she enjoyed helping people who were “down on their luck” so to speak. Her love seemed to know no boundaries. For many summers she brought great joy into my world. She made me know the true meaning of love and the true meaning of happiness. For many years and every summer of my life, she was my green stone.
Now that I am older, my grandmother has passed on. But my green stone still shines brightly every time I think of her. Every time I think of the way she laughed, the way she lived, or the way she took care of me. I remember the love she gave me and I can see my green stone just as clearly as I can see my grandmother’s face.