It was late in August. Our farm pond—the one we call “the big pond” when it swells its banks in the winter and early spring, offering up lovely reflections of Blue Mountain—had shrunk down to a glorified puddle. We were worried for the fish, mainly the catfish, which our daughter had taken to feeding like pets. Worst of all, an evil red scum was creeping across the water.

Then, one weekend, it happened. We came up to ready the house for some visiting friends. I hopped on the mower, but before I was  halfway down to the pond, the stench overwhelmed me.

Our once-proud pond had become an unholy stew of red algae and rotting fish. The surface was littered with hundreds of them, all species: bluegill, perch, smallmouth, and, saddest of all, about a dozen monstrously overfed catfish, their whiskers drooping, their eyes clouded, their big pink lips seemingly frozen in surprise. And deep disappointment.

After the dead fish bucket brigade, I studied up on the problem. Our pond suffered from various defects. Unlined sides and bottom? Check. Fed only by storm runoff? Check. Badly exposed to the relentless summer sun? Check. Aerated?

Huh? I knew that fish breathed oxygen. That’s what gills were for. And I knew that goldfish in a tank needed extra oxygen. But wasn’t there enough oxygen in the great out-of-doors to satisfy a few hundred measly farm fish?

Apparently not. I learned that the problem could be solved with a glorified bubbler, just like the one for a fish tank, but on a much bigger scale. That sounded promising. There was even an aerator that was a kind of floating fountain. Why not enjoy a water show while invigorating the small fry? Everybody loves Lake Geneva.

Of course, these newfangled aerators all ran on electricity. And electricity was in short supply near our pond. The closest outlet was about two hundred yards away, and we weren’t terribly interested in running an outdoor line all the way down. We’ve been trying to use less electricity, not more.

So I turned instead to an old-fashioned solution: a windmill. Windmills have a venerable history. They’ve been used for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. There are windmills that pump water. There are windmills that grind grain. There are even enormous windmills that generate megawatts. Those are the fancy windmills. A five-year-old would understand what our windmill does.

It blows bubbles.

Our sixteen foot aerating windmill arrived in the mail. Well, actually by UPS, in a series of hernia-inducing boxes. Assembling it involved plenty of blood, sweat, and tears. Erecting that six-foot diameter spinning wheel of galvanized death was its own nightmare.

But now the windmill, which we call John Henry, in honor of the ceaseless work it does, stands proudly by the pond, filling the water with life-giving bubbles.

We love how it looks. We love that it works quietly and for free. We love wind power so much that I looked into generating our electricity with it. Unfortunately, there’s just not enough wind on the property to make that feasible. We’d have to build an eighty foot tower, and even then, the amount of electricity we’d be generating wouldn’t amount to much.

A few weeks ago, we were visiting some of my wife’s relatives in Portugal. The Portuguese love wind power. The windswept hills along the coast are dominated by huge windmills. Maybe it’s an Iberian thing. I couldn’t help but think of Don Quixote, baking in his dusty armor, charging at those monstrous white blades.

I wouldn’t mind seeing a few windmills along the ridge of Blue Mountain. Especially if the electricity, or at least the wealth it generated, stayed in Perry County.

And I’m someone who absolutely loves the view.

This column was published in the Perry Co Times on 07 May 2009

For more information, please contact Mr. Olshan at writing@matthewolshan.com