During a recent commute, I would often take a longer, non-freeway route. This route passed through stretches of undeveloped “nature.” The freeway path was shorter and quicker, but I find freeway driving to be soul-sucking. The extra miles and drive time were worth it. It allowed me to see some greenery before and after work. The morning I saw a deer, it immediately became my preferred route.

Along this drive I noticed a dirty little pond. It’s roadside along a road that passes below the Lewisville Lake dam. It’s quirky and dirty, and I found I looked forward to seeing it along my commute.

There are many ponds and stock tanks (ponds for cows) along this drive, but this one became my friend because it was a little different. Depending on the day, weather and time of year, my pond projected a different emotion. Sometimes it brooded. Other times it invited a swim. It was always a welcome distraction.

• Would the water amplify the gray overcast skies?
• Was it swelling with optimism, framed by new weeds and budding trees?
• What would the ratio of pond scum to water be?
• Had the most recent storm finally knocked down the dead tree?

Each day I had to know how my pond was feeling. If I was distracted by the act of driving, or something, and I passed by without seeing my dirty little pond, I would have an “Aww, man, bummer” moment. Immediately I would look forward to my next drive by.

This pond resides in a mixed industrial area. There are two municipal dumps near by, and very little landscaping in the area is intentional. Many large trucks stir up dust that paints everything with its dirty baby powder. It’s thick at the ground and fades out about eight feet up the sides of buildings and trees.

Because of the area, trash is abundant, and the dirty little pond’s water is likely poisoned by all sorts of noxious runoff.

As our bond developed, so did my ability to see all the litter anew. Things I find reprehensible everywhere else, I saw as part of the pond. The trash became just another design element, and I stopped lamenting it. Without the litter, the pond would not be its authentic self. I discovered beauty when I first saw the wind animated shredded contractor plastic and grocery bags hung on fences and trees.

One of the first things that caught my attention was the fence that runs through the water at the back of the pond. There is a front fence, under tumbled trees, that runs the length of the roadside. The back fence doesn’t seem to continue on either side. Its post and spacing suggest a common livestock fence, although I have never seen any cows along this stretch of road.

I’ve seen fences divide a pond before elsewhere, but nothing like this. Those other fences in ponds were meant to delineating backyard property lines behind homes that shared a pond.

This fence interested me. And I am a sucker for interesting. I’ve spent much thinking-time trying to decode why this fence is there. I have some theories, but nothing rings the good idea bell in my head. Pondering the mysterious fence is one of the gifts from my dirty little pond to me.

The trees framing the pond and filling in the background are considered big weeds in this part of the world. You will never find the ratty willows at a plant nursery. Nobody wants them. They are opportunists and grow where tolerated. A few Mesquite trees, valued by meat cooking folk, but also considered weeds, are scattered among the trees behind the pond, but no one cares about that.

The dead trees poking up from the front and rear banks have slowly decayed over the seasons. I always look forward to see if yesterday’s storm has broken then down. They remind me of sun-bleached bones of something once living. My dirty little pond’s aesthetic sometimes has me contemplating mortality.

And then from above the pond hangs that utility line. Sure, I could zoom in and crop out that wire, but doing so would sap my dirty little pond’s magic.

The cable imposes itself with its down bowed length and thickness. It underscores the sky above, and the sky is an important part of my dirty little pond’s charm. How the cable floats without utility poles stirs a touch of dissonance in my gut. But it works.

Because it works, I experience new dissonance. This new dissonance triggers even more dissonance. It is all so intoxicating. I fancy myself a dissonance aficionado. Chin raised, I congratulate myself for understanding. Yet this intricate and layered dissonance is a canard. My pride rings flat, and I now question everything. How did my dirty little pond know that questioning everything is one of my favorite things? My dirty little pond has tricked me, and our bond has grown stronger. I am reminded of the first drooly bite of a perfectly ripe peach.

I curse you cable for requiring a second paragraph, when the bony dead wood only got a mention. Anyway, from what I learned from a step father who worked for an electric company, low cables like this likely transmit voice and data. I am compelled to wonder how often conversations about ponds zip through the cable as I drive past? Is caller four on hold, when caller five will win the concert tickets?

OMG, a third cable paragraph. The heavy cable, like the strewn trash, is unapologetic, and I must accept it to appreciate the whole. I wonder if, without this photobombing utility line, would the pond have caught my attention to begin with?

This pond is roadside to a busy thoroughfare. It was once considered a remote area, but with the daily dose of new Texans, it is now a four lane road with a raised turn lane/median. The median was originally landscaped, but given up on long ago.

I do not know what the posted speed limit is, but based on driver consensus, it’s north of 65 MPH. I mention this as explanation for my mediocre photos. Pulling over for a decent photo is scary. My pictures are a weak representation compared to experiencing the pond first-person.

I’ve driven by the pond hundreds of times, but because of an assortment of reasons on the dumb to good continuum, I have stopped only a few times. This is why I only have eight pictures in total. Many are poorer than these or they’re redundant, so I only share three.

To take these pictures along this road I pull onto a broad grassy shoulder scattered with tire shreds and cigarette butts (when did my world turn into your ashtray?). I turn on my blinkers, my electronic crossed fingers, a shield from automobile carnage. I jump out of my truck and take a handful of quick pics, as traffic roars and blasts past like stampeding beasts shot from howitzers.

I seem to find the pond most striking in grey overcast weather. On those days the pond reflects my deep down congenital brooding angst. Seeing it in this state makes stupid traffic easier to tolerate.

When sunny, especially in early Summer, I want to dive in and immerse myself in my dirty little pond’s waters. Am I welcome or is this trespass? Regardless, I wonder if this a short path to my death. Will my dirty little pond share an amoeba that eats my brain or consumes my flesh? I don’t understand why this taboo heightens my dirty little pond’s allure.

I no longer commute in that direction. I occasionally wonder how my dirty little pond is doing. Has it changed much? I suppose it will always be dirty. I expect it will still ignore me. I feel typical. It never asked for my compulsive attention. All things considered, I wish it well.

Here is a Google Street View link so you can look around a bit for yourself.

Copy and then paste the url into the Google address bar at the top of your browser window –

https://www.google.com/maps/@33.0475419,-96.9474302,3a,75y,348.58h,91.71t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sV1vxEmWpl5klILhqKIGMug!2e0!6shttps:%2F%2Fstreetviewpixels-pa.googleapis.com%2Fv1%2Fthumbnail%3Fpanoid%3DV1vxEmWpl5klILhqKIGMug%26cb_client%3Dmaps_sv.share%26w%3D900%26h%3D600%26yaw%3D348.57783685184535%26pitch%3D-1.7053709787703895%26thumbfov%3D90!7i16384!8i8192?authuser=0&coh=205410&entry=ttu