“Maybe they filled it.”
“Why?”
“Pond construction?”
The modern pond was believed to have been excavated in the 1940s.
At least family memory said so.
If a flowing well or spring already existed, perhaps the pond had been dug around it.
Then covered.
Then forgotten.
She wanted to know.
Her father did not want to drain the pond.
Absolutely not.
“No.”
“We could pump it down.”
“No.”
“Not all at once.”
“No.”
“Dad.”
“No.”
She waited.
He kept reading the newspaper.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a perfectly good pond.”
“If there’s an artesian source underneath—”
“Then it’s already doing its job.”
She stopped.
That was reasonable.
“What if the source is partially blocked?”
“So?”
“What if opening it improves water supply?”
“For what?”
“Irrigation.”
He laughed.
“You planning to irrigate two hundred acres from a mystery hole?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“Maybe stock water.”
“We have a well.”
“Maybe drought reserve.”
“We have a well.”
“Maybe geothermal potential.”
He stared.
She laughed.
“Okay, probably not.”
He shook his head.
“You want to drain it because you’re curious.”
She crossed her arms.
“Partly.”
“Curiosity is expensive.”
“Sometimes ignorance is more expensive.”
“That line cost tuition.”
“Worth it.”
He walked away.
She let the subject rest.
For two weeks.
Then the farm well pump failed.
Not permanently.
Electrical control.
Easy repair.
But the failure happened while the water system was supplying livestock on leased pasture nearby.
For several hours, the farm had no pumped water.
The pond became backup.
Her father hauled from it.
The irony was obvious.
The young woman helped without comment.
That irritated him more.
Finally he said:
“Go ahead.”
She looked at him.
“What?”
“Say it.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Liar.”
She smiled.
“Would be nice to understand our water sources.”
He glared.
Then laughed.
“Still not draining it.”
Not yet.
Spring arrived.
She conducted another drawdown test.
This time more controlled.
She pumped thousands of gallons for irrigation onto a test pasture.
Pond level fell ten inches.
Over the next forty-eight hours, without rain, it recovered nearly seven.
She calculated estimated inflow.
Her father looked at the result.
“That can’t be right.”
“I checked.”
“How much?”
She gave him the estimate.
He stared toward the pond.
“That’s not seepage.”
“No.”
“Maybe underground drainage from hills.”
“Possible.”
“But?”
She smiled.
“But I want to know.”
He sighed.
The neighbor heard.
“You’re still obsessed?”