Jake Page | February 22, 2016
There had been little discussion of our pond before the hole was dug. A good idea, we had agreed, and I went on to other things. Good ideas abound here at our home in the Piedmont, the low foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Some take on a material reality; others simply float like comfortable ghosts, an optimistic cloudscape of potentialities that are in some ways as important to making a place a home as actually building bookshelves and planting a row of tomatoes. Then my wife somehow perceived an emergent consensus about the pond and, selecting it from among the many wraiths of possibilities, dug the hole.