Farm Ponds

(Reprinted with permission of the author. Originally posted June 30, 2019.)

By Glenn Busch

If it weren't for farm ponds, those placid, oversized puddles that dot the rural landscape, I don't know if I ever would have become the fisherman I am today. They were the boyhood training grounds where, with a closed-face Zebco, a whippy fiberglass rod, a dozen night crawlers, a few snelled hooks, and a chunky egg-shaped bobber, bass and bream were caught, and the love of angling began.

While these days I spend most of my time on rivers and streams, fishing almost exclusively for trout and smallmouth bass, I still make an occasional foray into farm-pond country. And yes, it still brings out the kid in me--metaphorically speaking, of course. One look at my wrinkled hide nullifies any other similarities to a kid, believe me.

Just yesterday, Dave and I decided to fish a pond that's on the property of a mutual friend, who has generously given us--along with a key to the gate--permission to fish anytime we want. Now that's a friend!

The great thing about farm ponds is how convenient they are. Unless you live in a mega-metropolis that features asphalt and concrete for as far as the eye can see, you usually can find a decent pond nearby that doesn't require a lot of time getting there. Like Dave and me, you can decide on the spur of the moment to get in a couple hours of fishing without much fuss or preparation.

Anyway, because it has been hotter than an open hearth here lately, Dave and I agreed to meet at the farm just before sundown, when it would be a bit cooler, and the intense light would be off the water. And hopefully, the fish would be in a feeding mood.

The results were fair. We caught some bream, one bass, and several shell crackers, all on topwater poppers. Nothing to brag about. But before we put up our rods, we sat at a weather-beaten picnic table near the water's edge, drank a beer, and listened to the whippoorwills, woodpeckers and songbirds carry on in the trees around us. An adolescent doe came out of the tree line to join us and grazed not 25 yards from where we were sitting, apparently indifferent to our presence.

It must have been a nostalgic moment for both of us, because the next thing I knew we had lapsed into antique memories of when we first began fishing and learned to love the outdoors.

There we were, two geezers reminiscing about the good old days when you could fish almost anywhere you wanted, and the fish were plentiful, and you didn't have to put up with the crowds and blah, blah, blah. What can I say? It was quite possibly an enactment of the Will Rogers comment that "Things sure aren't like they used to be, and they never were." Whatever. In any case, we enjoyed ourselves griping and recalling. That's what aged anglers are supposed to do, and we were doing our bit to uphold the tradition.

Speaking of aging anglers, that reminds me of two of my favorites: my long-dead grandfather and a nearly-as-long-dead former parishioner from my ministering days.

It was my grandfather, who, while dying of emphysema, would carry me with him to Lake Susan, where he would pull his old Pontiac right up to the water's edge, set up his folding chair, and sit for hours fishing for rainbow stockers. Before he died, he gave me his Ambassadeur 5000 bait-casting reel, one of the most treasured gifts I ever have received. Today, it sits in a prominent spot on the bookshelf in my fly-tying room.

The other mentor was Boyd, who was a member of a church I had come to serve. He, in his 80s, and I, in my early 30s, we made an oddball angling pair but a memorable one nonetheless.

It was Boyd who introduced me to the fly rod. Fishing a pond together one day, he asked, "Ever use one of these?"

"No," I said, "never have."

"Here, try this one," he said, handing it over. The next day, I was off to K-Mart to purchase my very first fly rod, an obscene piece of thumb-thick plastic that flexed like overcooked linguine, but it marked a beginning, and I never turned back.

Boyd gave me one of his Pflueger reels to go with that pitiful beginner's rod. It is long gone, but the reel is not. It, along with my grandfather's Ambassadeur 5000, serves as a tangible memory of my angling life and of those who helped to shape it.

As I write, a collage of pictures hangs above my desk. It is a framed grouping of four photographs featuring my two grandsons and me. They are little boys on one of their first outings. In one picture, the youngest holds up a small bass he just had caught. In another, his brother concentrates intently on a plastic bobber, beneath which dangles an enticing worm.

A farm pond comprises the background for each of the pictures and whispers promises of adventures yet to come.

About the author: Due entirely to his father's military service, Glenn was born in Kissimmee, FL, just months before his dad mustered out, and the family returned to their Pittsburgh, PA home. A graduate of Penn State University, he began a career as an Episcopal priest in 1971, and served churches in Virginia and North Carolina, before retiring in 2008 as rector emeritus of St. Mary's Church in High Point, NC, after a pastorate of more than 27 years. It was during the High Point years that he also became a college teacher. While still serving as rector of the parish, High Point University asked him to become an adjunct faculty member, where, for 18 years, he taught for the department of religion and philosophy. Glenn and his wife, Kathleen, have two children and two grandchildren upon whom they dote as often as time and distance will allow. They retired to Lynchburg, VA in 2008, where Kathleen paints and he writes.