“Have you seen the pond when it’s drained?” he asked.
“Drained?”
His eyes went wide, and he held his hands up.
“Oh. Well do I ever have some things to tell you!”
We had returned to Mammoth Spring, having stopped here on our way north two summers ago. We had just taken a selfie when he had come walking across the dam with a long-handled fork-hoe in his hand. He had been untangling pond weeds from the outlet of the dam. We introduced ourselves.
He told us about how the weeds come loose when it rains. He told us about the big flood earlier in the summer when the river downstream backed up and overtopped the dam from the downhill side. He told us about how they drain the pond in the fall. How it’s a thing — towns people come to watch.
He told us how they attach hand cranks to open the gates and let the pond empty. How his arms ache the next day. How the flow from the spring continues in two deep channels when the pond is otherwise empty. He told us about the wreckage from train derailments at the bottom of the pond, wreckage that only appears when the water is gone. He told us how a woman lost a diamond ring in the water a few years ago. He pointed to the river downstream to suggest where he figured it had gone.
He told us about the auto show from the week before. And about the thousands of eggs they hide for kids at Easter. And about the carnival. And the movie on the green. And kids meeting Santa at Christmas time. And the geese — he talked about the Canada Geese, pointing to the on the far side of the pond where they were assembled on a broad lawn. And in a tone of amazement, he told us about the “Three Queens” — three white domestic geese who rule the roost.
Then it started to rain. We said a hurried thank you and good bye. He returned to his work. We rushed back to our car and got back on the road.