Having had enough of society and gossip in the seaside village, I rambled one Sunday further westward than is my habit, to Wagamon’s, a lovely and humble pond, forty-one acres, and seldom deeper than ten feet.
Dammed in 1815 at the head of the Broadkill River where two tributaries converge, Wagamon’s water is fresh and home to bass, pickerel, and pan fish. Red bellied turtles bask on logs. Yellow nymph lilies, the divinities of the pond, beckon from secluded coves.
While some come for sport, others prefer to glide along in a black canoe, serenaded by bullfrogs and birds and hearing from time to time the splash of the fishes and the pop of the champagne cork.