The love pond

My excursion into the strange underworld of water gardening.

By Amanda Ward

Sep 19, 2000 | My sweetie's got sweaters, and he's got ties. He's got shelves of books and stacks of CDs. He has computer games, skis and a canoe. You could call him the man who has everything, but you'd be wrong. What he doesn't have -- yet -- is a pond.

This is our first year in Texas. And this week is our anniversary. Last year, my man headed into a Montana morning with his fly rod and brought home an anniversary trout. This year, he just sits by the window and stares. There's nothing outside our window but a big, scorched yard. I know what he's missing. I stop casting about on the Web and trolling the malls for presents.

This year, I'm giving my man a pond. A love pond.

Sounds simple, eh? No fancy implements needed other than a big yard, a shovel and some elbow grease. Martha Stewart, eat your heart out!

Because I am organized, I make a list: Research ponds, dig hole, line hole, fill with water, add fish. Smiling, I add: Skinny-dip by moonlight.

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Step 1: Research ponds

At work on Monday, when my boss isn't looking, I begin my search. The first resource I find is Pete's Pond Page. This astonishing Web page details the construction of a huge pond in the yard of one avid water gardener named Peter Orelup. Pete's pond began as a medium-sized hole in 1993, and is now home to koi, water lilies, a stream, and, I kid you not, a bridge. The diagram of Pete's elaborate recirculating pumping system makes my head -- pardon the pun -- swim.

From Pete's page, I head over to the Austin, Texas, Pond Society Home Page, which I am awed to find that over 150,000 people have accessed. I am invited to join the Internet Pond Web Ring. I have missed the Austin Pond Tour and Officer's Meeting. I am beginning to feel overwhelmed when an office busybody named Bob peers over my shoulder. "Can't have a pond around here," he says.

"Why not?"

"Raccoons," says Bob. He explains that wherever there is a water source, wildlife will congregate, and around central Austin, wildlife means raccoons.

I find a local water garden store, and call immediately.

"Oh, yes, you'll get wildlife," admits the woman who answers the phone. She adds in a snooty voice, "We pond-lovers feel it's worth it."

I shrug. I really dislike Bob. "You know," I tell him, "True pond lovers embrace wildlife."

He goes back to his little cube.

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Step 2: Dig hole

"Honey," I say, as we sip beers in our backyard, "where's your favorite spot to, um, sit and think back here?"

He looks around. "Under that tree, I guess," he says. I smile. Little does he know, I think, that by spring he'll be reeling in a big one underneath that oak.

The pond store is smelly and amazing. There are small ponds full of seaweed, and big ponds with waterfalls and lazy koi. "I am a pond novice," I explain to the first clerk that comes my way. To my dismay, the clerk tells me that to get away with not having a pump or filter, I can't go larger than 4 feet by 4 feet. Not much room for skinny-dipping.

That night, while my man is out, I drink some wine and begin to dig with an old shovel I find in the garage. Don't let anyone fool you: Digging is very hard work. By 10 o'clock, I am sore, and there is a puddle-sized hole in my yard. I put the shovel away. Maybe this will be a Christmas pond.

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Step 3: Line hole

Back at the pond store, I price pond liners. They are expensive items, and the woman assures me with condescension that a garbage bag will not do the trick. I choose a medium-sized black hole, and throw down my credit card: $157.43. I am now the owner of the most expensive plastic wading pool on earth.

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