Trego's Mountain Ear

I was looking at a post on Facebook the other day – one of those regular posts that complain about the folks who drive at excessive speed. The woman who wrote it described being passed “by the pond just before the school.” She’s relatively new to the community (by my standards) but I realized that the last person I heard call the pond by its old name – Fahlgren’s Pond – was Loretta Todd. She was my last neighbor who actually knew my grandfather – her father, Jim Johnson, kept his horse for when the old man would return to Trego – before he died in 1954, it was a simple process: get off the train at Trego, walk a half-mile to the cabin built by Michal Waseles (AKA Mike Smith), stash his bag, and walk another half-mile to the Johnson place, where Jim kept his horse. In those days around 1950, electricity was new, and a horse was all that he needed.

Grampa Gus had been hit by heat stroke in North Dakota – so part of his schedule was to get the crop in there, and then return to the cooler summer of Trego, prune the young trees, get on the train if he was needed for the wheat harvest, then back to Trego for the Christmas tree harvest. He used the railroads like we use the Internet. And sometime in the 46 years he owned the place, the pond became Fahlgren’s pond.

And the last resident – except for me – who knew my grandfather and knew the pond as Fahlgren’s pond, has gone. I’d like to see the name continue. I’m not quite sure how to do it – but I think a sign, routed out and bolted to the fence, may help keep the name present as new generations move into Trego. Watch for it – it’s one more project for this old man.

My grandfather was two years past my age when he died – and, to me, his five-year-old grandson, one of the most important people in the world. Something about the way he treated me – Carl Rogers would later term it ‘unconditional positive regard – has kept those memories from my early years blurred, but present. I guess I could say he taught me how a grandfather should relate to little boys. I hope to have done as well when it comes my time.

The pond, though, is a changed pond over the years. Originally – before my grandfather bought the place in 1917 (it was a homestead that hadn’t been finalized then) the pond was larger. A photograph shared by Jess Clairy showed it covering the hayfield and labeled ‘Indian Lake’. It was drained with dynamite excavations and reduced from a small lake to a pond and a hayfield. And a salt lick, where my grandmother’s tree stand let her sit with her 32 special and bring a 4 point buck to the table.