We’ve recently noticed an addition of benefit to our web-footed friends.
The road here skirts a small glacial kettle, now overseen by our excellent local land trust. Lots of animals are attracted to its small pond and its shelter from everyday human activity. (Today, we saw what we think was a fox in there, so the ducks may have more to worry about than a passing Mini Cooper.)
When H was little we lived in a sweet little house on the far side, whose back yard sloped steeply down to the pond, and I used to walk her down in the winter so she could skate. When I was a boy (oh, brother, here we go again...), the area was still privately owned and the water was known as “Martin’s Pond.” Now I think everyone just calls it “The Kettle.” We never skated there, instead gracing four or five other local ponds, and one huge and annually reliable puddle, with our raucous and profoundly unskilled pond hockey. (The only time I’ve ever been knocked cold was chasing a puck in one of these games.) In the age of indoor rinks and formalized teams for kids, I don’t think pond hockey exists around here any more. If you get knocked out now, it’s in controlled conditions.
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