Frank was a real Renaissance man. He was a writer, an artist and musician. He adored nature and animals more than people. Don’t get me wrong—Frank was a sociable guy. But like many tortured artistic souls, he was happiest in solitude. He never married and only tolerated children when he had to, such as nieces and nephews, and that was limited to holidays. He was always perfectly content staying at home, sitting beside his backyard pond, reading the newspaper, listening to the peaceful sounds of bullfrogs all around him.
His most cherished moments were spent communing with nature: walking in the woods behind his house; eyes closed in his favorite rocker on his back-porch, captivated by the sounds of the night: the neighborhood hooting owl, the chirping crickets and the cawing crows.
Thunderstorms were always special to Frank, in an odd, macabre sort of way. He loved the smell of rain, the way the entire sky flashed, the rumble in the distance inching closer and closer, the powerful, cloudburst of wind and rain, blowing sheets of pelting drops on the trees; and the clean scent after the storm had passed—a brand spanking, squeaky clean world.
Frank loved frogs. In fact, he was fond of most reptiles and amphibians, but especially frogs. The sound of a croaking frog in his pond soothed to his soul. He waited every summer for the local tree frogs to travel from the woods to his pond. To Frank, summer wasn’t summer without frogs in his pond. Forget the flickering lightning bugs and a festive Fourth of July; forget noisy fireworks and juicy watermelon; forget good, old baseball and patriotic parades. Frogs meant summertime.
I got to know Frank well after I married his sister Janet. He and I had a good relationship. I respected his vast knowledge of nature and admired his passion for animals. I think he liked me because I liked him.
One summer day, Frank stopped by to help us replant our beautiful azalea bushes, which were damaged by a vicious thunderstorm. He was sitting in our living room next to the front screen door, relaxing in a rocking chair, cooling off with a glass of iced tea after his extraordinary landscape rescue.
“I believe that everything that dies will come to life again,” he said in classic Frank philosophical mode. “Your azalea bushes should be fine for next spring.”
Then, without warning, he snapped his fingers and blurted out, “What you need is a pond!”
Janet loved the idea. I did too but I was worried. The front yard was spacious but not huge. I had cultivated the lawn, getting rid of the crabgrass. The front lawn was a beautiful masterpiece to behold now. I tried to picture a sparkling pond on the lawn but all I kept thinking about was that first shovel of grass and dirt.
In the end, with gentle prodding, I reluctantly agreed.
That first shovel in the lawn was like a dagger through my heart. The empty hole left an empty feeling in my soul. With all the rain we had had it was easy, like a spoon dipping into chocolate pudding. By the end of the day, the digging was done, and we were ready for phase two of the project.
Frank was a professional when it came to creating ponds and rock gardens. He had constructed or supervised the building of several ponds in his lifetime. I trusted that the randomly scattered tools, soil and tarp would soon be replaced by the pond of our dreams.
Frank was very careful, placing each stone and each river jack rock. He ventured to a local quarry to select each stone personally. Like a giant jigsaw puzzle, he arranged and rearranged until the rock garden was perfect. Watching Frank work was like imagining how Michelangelo did it in his prime.
Then came the moment of truth—trying out the pond for the first time. That initial gush of water was like waiting for Old Faithful to erupt. Bubbling, clear water cascaded playfully down the rocks. I was in love!
Frank picked out the appropriate summer flowers to ring around the circular pond: an assortment of colorful marigolds, planted in a bright mixture of yellow and orange. He sprinkled in a few brown-eyed susans, several pink and purple petunias, and various shades of red snapdragons.
The final piece was the beautiful, two-foot-tall St. Francis statue standing at the high end of the pond. Frank was always partial to St. Francis of Assisi; not only was he named after the saint, but St. Francis was also the patron saint of animals, a subject near and dear to Frank’s heart.
People walked by and stopped to admire the pond. Total strangers and familiar neighbors left compliments. Cars drove slowly by our place, admiring the beauty. The pond blended in beautifully with the rest of the yard.
Frank sure knew what he was doing. My tune had changed. I loved the pond and couldn’t imagine the yard without it.
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The wildlife loved the pond. No matter the time of day, we would always find a beautiful creature drinking or bathing in the water. The birds, squirrels and rabbits sure would miss it during the long winter ahead.
How ironic that, as the pond area went brown and lifeless for the winter, Frank died very unexpectedly after the new year. No one knew he had terminal cancer. He never let on. But that was Frank—very private, right to the end.
“Damn Frank!” wept Janet. “You were my brother. Why didn’t you at least tell me? I never had a chance to say goodbye.”
All the time that Frank had been working on our pond, he had been sick. Our pond would be the last one he would ever build. The pond would serve as an everlasting monument to Frank. His spirit would live on through the flowing waters.
The weather was unseasonably warm the following March. I always loved spring—a time for renewal and hope. Soon the daffodils, lilacs and forsythia were blooming and by Easter, the dogwood tree blossomed, and our world went from a gloomy, dingy brown to spring greens and vibrant colors.
I was planting spring flowers around the pond, yellow and orange marigolds, as Frank had suggested, when I noticed a tadpole sunning himself on one of the stones, its head barely peeking out from underneath the water. It stared at me as I stared at it. Who would blink first?
“We have a guest,” I informed Janet. “A frog is living in our pond.”
“How sweet!” she remarked. “Frank would be pleased. He always loved frogs.”
Later that morning, Janet stepped out the front door for her daily walk and found a garter snake near the pond. She was never a big fan of reptiles to begin with, but when she noticed the snake trying to swallow a frog—OUR frog—she grabbed a nearby garden hoe and gave the snake a good whack. It proceeded to spit out our frog, slithering into the bushes while our rescued little buddy hopped into the pond with a splash.
“Let that be a lesson to you!” Janet scolded the snake.
Then the strangest thing happened. Janet noticed it first. One lovely day, she was looking out at the screen door, sipping her morning coffee, when she saw a robin with a broken wing hobble to the edge of the rocks, leaping into the pond. The bird bathed and splashed carefree. Then, remarkably, the robin flew away, its wing healed.
That was just the beginning. More animals arrived at the pond, bathing, shaking themselves dry on the rocks. An alley cat with a limp dipped its paw in the water, limping no more; a rabbit with a severe scratch on the ear immersed itself and was made whole again; a furry squirrel with an injured tail splashed and played, finally pain-free.
All were instantly and completely healed after bathing in the water.
We began to take notice as more and more creatures lined up for their turn in the pond. It was like the animals had told their friends, who then told their friends. Birds flew in from all directions. We watched them, amazed as all of them left without affliction.
It wasn’t unusual for neighbors to walk their dogs early in the morning or in the cool of the evening. One day our neighbor Elaine was walking her bulldog, Rocky. What was different was Rocky’s sudden desire to check out the pond. He never cared about it or noticed it before; now, suddenly, he cared.
Watching the rather hefty dog dive into the smallish pond, dousing himself among the pond plants and river jack, was comical. Rocky dipped his great brown head under the water. I didn’t blame him for cooling off on such a humid afternoon. Have at it, big guy, I thought.
Several days later, Elaine knocked on our screen door. She was always a cheerful, bubbly woman, but she seemed extra exuberant this evening. She took Rocky for his routine check-up earlier in the day. The vet was following a cataract in the dog’s right eye. As of that day, the cataract was gone.
Elaine was the first one to make the connection between the pond and Rocky’s healing. I was happy for Rocky, but I asked if we could keep this good news to ourselves. I just didn’t want news to get out and suddenly our front yard would become an animal shrine, a doggy and kitty version of Lourdes.
She agreed. But then Janet got a call from another neighbor around the block. She had a parrot with a cracked beak. Could she bring Polly to the pond?
There were no prayers, no burning candles, no processions. The neighbor simply asked Polly to sit on her finger while the owner knelt beside the pond and splashed a handful of water on the bird. Miraculously, the beak was healed before our eyes.
The owner screamed with joy, wailing “Polly, oh Polly!” while incessantly thanking us.
Janet and I conferred at the kitchen table. We weren’t going to promote the fact that we, somehow, someway, had a healing pond in front of our house. But we weren’t going to deny it, either. This magical water could help so many sick creatures. We were animal lovers too. We owned a cute terrier dog named Katie. I could only imagine how it felt to have a sick furry friend—the sadness, the financial burden, the stress—and then, one bath in our pond and a miracle!
Was St. Francis somehow involved? Was his spirit blessing our pond? Whatever it was, supernatural events were occurring. We were blessed to have this phenomenon occur in front of our house, but I also had to admit it was kind of spooky too.
It was always fun to see how Freddie the Frog reacted to visitors using his pond. “Freddie” is what we named the visitor who still hung out, usually sunning on the stones or swimming underneath the surface. Freddie got out of the way when a bigger animal, like a Rocky, invaded his space. But he never left the pond area, so we figured he was happy sharing his domain with needy creatures.
Along with listening to baseball on the radio, a new summertime activity played out before my eyes: I sat on the front porch in a lawn chair, a glass of iced tea handy, while watching the wildlife take turns in our pond. Perhaps the most impressive sight that summer was the unexpected arrival of a bald eagle, swooping above majestically, gradually and gracefully landing beside the pond. Out of respect, all creatures stepped aside as the regal bird splashed in the pond for a few moments, basking in the sun, drying on the rocks before taking off, gliding and soaring high into the sapphire sky until flying out of sight.
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One morning, the local newspaper came out to do a story and take a few pictures. Our pond was even featured in the Philadelphia newspapers, and television cameras started filming the front yard. Our place had become a local must-see destination.
That’s when the floodgates opened.
It seemed as if every sick or injured animal and its owner living in the Philadelphia area had descended on our street. We soon thought that maybe we should start scheduling appointments, that’s how crazy it was getting. But, despite the circus atmosphere and the traffic on the street—the neighbors weren’t too crazy about that—all the animals were incredibly healed. No matter the affliction, the ailment, or the condition.
Before long, desperate people began bringing their sick children. It broke our hearts, especially when they were not cured. Only the animals were healed.
It wasn’t long before geologists, chemists, and veterinarians stopped by to test the water, the rocks, the earth, anything that could’ve attributed to miracles without supernatural intervention. Despite all the calculations and examinations, they could find nothing scientifically unusual happening on our property.
The only explanation remaining was God.
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The days melted away and soon it was October 4th, which happened to be the Feast Day of St. Francis of Assisi. It was on this day of all days that our miracle pond dried up. Not literally—the water still flowed for another month before we closed for the upcoming winter—but after early October, despite the pond brimming with fresh water, no animal was cured. The miracles abruptly ended.
The geese started flying south, and many of our neighborhood birds had already started their journey to warmer climates. Other creatures began hibernating. The flowers dried up, even the fall mums eventually died. It was sad to see the pond so brown and lifeless, especially after such an active and miraculous summer.
December and Christmas came and went. We got our usual amount of snow that winter, which was great for the lawn. We looked forward to spring, when we could open the pond again, but we wondered if miracles would resume come March or April. Meanwhile, we continued to schedule appointments, months ahead of time.
“Tell Whiskers to hang in there,” Janet advised one woman. “Help is on the way.”
Spring arrived late that season, and our pond didn’t re-open until Easter Sunday, April 20th. Our crocuses were out, as were our tulips and daisies. The clean air was scented with green grass and soft breezes. The pond opened but the miracles did not resume. It was just a regular pond. The healthy neighborhood birds, squirrels and rabbits still visited every day, taking their daily baths. Soon the calls dwindled; we advised people to be aware, especially if they lived at a distance, that they would be taking a chance to visit us because the miracles were hit-and-miss now. In a way, it was nice to be back to normal once again.
Once the weather got a bit warmer and the humidity returned, our little friend Freddie reappeared in the pond, making the trek from the nearby ravine. Hibernation was over for another winter. I was fixing a leak in the waterfall when I noticed him. He seemed to know me because when I spied him peering over the rim of a rock I said, “Happy Spring, Freddie!” and he responded with a resounding “croak!”
Unbeknownst to Freddie and the other pond dwellers, we had made the decision to keep the pond open year-round from then on. The winter birds, the squirrels and other wildlife that did not hibernate missed the water too much. We installed a heater in the pond to protect our blessed water from freezing over the long winter. Now, Freddie would be able to hibernate in the muddy bottom of the pond, rather than make the annual long journey to the ravine.
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Later that spring, our dog Katie became severely ill with an unshakable stomach bug. Medication wasn’t working and she started to lose weight. It was then we took her to the vet, and they diagnosed her with a very rare canine cancer, for which we were told there was no cure.
We brought Katie home to die.
I filled a small bottle with our pond water and encouraged Katie to drink it. Then I rubbed a little on her belly. Funny how I was so used to miracles happening. Supernatural events had been so commonplace before. Now, when nothing special happened to Katie, when she remained so deathly ill, when we prayed for a miracle, nothing happened.
It was Janet who figured it out.
Janet held Katie in her arms and walked her outside one evening. I followed, unsure what was happening. Twinkling stars were fading quietly with the increasingly overcast sky. A rumble in the distance signaled a thunderstorm was on its way. A gusty breeze grew stronger; flashes of lightning lit up the ominous sky.
Janet knelt beside the pond and dunked the little dog into the water. Immediately, Katie shivered, reacting to the chilly water. Then she squirmed with life, licking Janet on the cheek and snuggling her neck.
Our Katie was back to life.
Janet, with tears flowing down her face, cried out joyously, “Thank you, FRANK!” A cloudburst soaked us with cooling rain.
Her gratitude was acknowledged by one simple “croak” from somewhere in the pond.
About the Author
Gregory Smith is a retired medical social worker. He is active on social media, including Facebook, X, Blue Sky and Instagram. Greg enjoys sports, classic movies, Beatles music and reading in his free time. He is married with two cute dogs, Katie and Cocoa.
