by Kathleen M. Brosius

Pondo lived near the Minnesota Slough. As a youngster, he spent his time wandering around the Islands just below the Minnesota/Iowa border. His dream was to live on one of those islands. Pondo was a rogue of a man, refusing to conform to society’s demands. He and his cronies spent their days fishing the adjoining sloughs, trying to make a living managing box traps and hoop nets. One day back in the 1930s, Pondo won a card game. His win was a spot of land along the Minnesota Slough. He also paid $150 and a gunny sack full of moldy muskrat pelts for the land.

The May brothers purchased a few old buildings and had them moved onto the site. Two houses and an icehouse. The icehouse was full of sawdust where huge blocks of ice, cut out of the frozen river, were stored. The ice was chopped up, when needed, to cover the fish for their trip to the market.

The boat used for the work was called a launch. It was wide, long and flat. As a child, my brothers and I would climb into the launch along with our mother and a pile of supplies and head for the Islands and our shanty. No electricity, no water. Kerosene lamps, and overstuffed quilts on the beds, made life on the Islands our little bit of heaven.

Years passed, and one day two gentlemen dressed in black suits came for a visit. I remember Daddy and these men sitting at our dining room table at our house in town. They gave Daddy a check for $1,000. He and the other river people were forced to sell their land along the sloughs of the Mississippi River. They were given a few years before they had to remove everything from the land. Our little heaven was gone. Our dad was broken-hearted. He loved the Islands and the sloughs. He sold the shanty; it was moved to a small farm above town. I have been to the island in recent years, Mini Park, was its name. One can spot evidence of a distant past: chunks of concrete, a coke bottle, a toy tin car. There are other items lost to time, now covered in brush, tree growth, mud. One item, in particular, is buried nearby. Daddy’s old launch. In his last days before leaving us, he so wanted to return to the islands to search for his beloved launch. Each time he spoke of it, I told him that it was safely buried in the silt and mud from the spring floods. And some day, an archaeologist would no doubt uncover it. That satisfied him, until the next time we visited.  

I wrote a poem the night before Daddy’s funeral. I read it to folks attending.

Lost Treasure of Mini Park

When the moon climbs over the hills beyond,
A soft light stirs the mist of the night. 
Through the depth of the islands, I can almost see
The shadows from time past take flight. 

The soft breeze whispers a low sweet song.
Leaves rustle and stir while straining to hear. 
An owl commands his subjects, "be still"
And I listen for his footsteps so clear.

This island I pass when the moon lights the way
Beckons me with a soft plea.
Someone is calling for someone to help.
Could he be waiting patiently for me?

I step to the shore and silently watch.
A tall man in hip boots I behold. 
He lifts a felled tree and peers under its bulk.
Then drops it, steps to another and takes hold. 

This vision moves softly through the moonlit night. 
He calls and throws trees to and fro.
They say he searches for something each night
When the full moon sends its white glow. 

For scores of years, this gentle man has come.
for a treasure he lost in times past. 
Will he rest tonight and smile with a sigh? 
And I watch as he finds his old launch at last.

by Kathleen M. Brosius
A Tribute to Pondo
December 12, 1997