WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

I left early this morning to get a walk in before the sun was high in the sky and caused me to swelter. The kids are now out of school for the Summer so less people and traffic around made for a hushed and humid morn as I did my 2¼-mile round trip to the Wyandotte/Lincoln Park border and back. I was enroute to Wyandotte when I first heard it. The unmistakable rhythm of a woodpecker drilling his beak into a tree. I swiveled my head to get a look at this fractious bird but could see nothing. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt, brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt – my ear could not detect his whereabouts either … and then he stopped. Soon thereafter, a similar, if not identical, noise sounded in the distance. It wasn’t an echo. I couldn’t find the offender this time either. Then, the first noise resumed, subsequently stopped, then sure enough, the other woodpecker once again responded in kind, as he drilled fast and furiously. The pair was raising a ruckus and causing consternation to someone out there to be sure. I hope no one wanted to sleep in. On my return trip from Wyandotte to Lincoln Park, the pair was still up to their respective drilling expeditions, each episode lasting a minute or two. I had to stifle a smile as I imagined one or two homeowners nervously glancing out the window, mindful of the series of staccato jabs into their prized trees, and witnessing a pair of fine-feathered friends performing their rendition of “Dueling Banjos” out in the backyard. As I moseyed on home, my imagination went into overdrive and I soon could hear none other than Woody Woodpecker looking down from the tree and laughing hysterically in that goofy sound he always made. Further pondering those little buggers caused me to conclude they were merely alerting each other to bug and grub hidey-holes via Woodpecker Morse Code. Well, go figure.

“Nature is what wins in the end.” -Abby Adams

Well the weather forecasters predicted a gully washer last night and again this morning. I got up early anyway and did my housework that had languished since last weekend. Unfortunately, the weatherman only got the forecast half-right and when I took my garbage out at 7:45 a.m., the sun was peeking through the clouds and I could have walked. Oops!!! Well, life is full of coulda/shoulda/woulda events – this was one of them. It is only fitting that it rained for Father’s Day because it rained for Mother’s Day, so what is good for the goose is good for the gander. I thought about that little phrase when I heard the rain pittering-pattering on my patio roof very early this morning. It may have been a soggy early a.m. breakfast at the pancake house with Dad but I think the afternoon eventually was salvaged for brats and burgers in the backyard. I intended all along to write a walking post that incorporated Father’s Day into the commentary, but when I didn’t walk, I decided not to lambaste my father any further in this forum, since I already said how I felt earlier this week on the occasion of what would have been their 60th wedding anniversary. Perhaps next year – it will be thirty years in May since I last saw him – perhaps I will recognize that anniversary. For me, there is no angst or sadness with Father’s Day like with Mother’s Day. Weeks before Mother’s Day, there is a constant barrage of radio ads of what to buy mom, or just walking through the store you cannot help but see cards and cakes for mom. Well, when there no mom to buy for, it causes some heartache – sometimes, there is a lump in your throat but you have to gulp, swallow hard and carry on. I was never remiss in showing my mom how I loved her while she was alive so I am buoyed by any good times and memories we had together. Before getting too maudlin, I will share how Father’s Day was celebrated in our house after the departure of Max Schaub. I decided my mom would fill the shoes of both parents, so every year I went to Hallmark and bought her a Father’s Day card with the word “Father” xxxx’d out and “Mother” scrawled over in its place. She got a present wrapped in masculine wrapping paper and a festive cake tailored to “Dad” … we always made sure to go out for lunch as well on Father’s Day. So, I wasn’t Daddy’s little girl anymore but I sure as h*ll got over it. Cheers to the fathers who have created cherished memories for their children and for their evergreen wisdom once they leave the nest, significant character flaws for the man whom I called my father … ‘nuff said.

The word “Twittersphere” has finally migrated from “The Urban Dictionary” to “The Oxford English Dictionary” and I had to laugh when I heard that story on the news yesterday. Social media has taken the world by storm and now, even the prim and proper British dictionary used by wordsmiths everywhere. will include the words “Twitter” and “Tweet” … not so long ago, twitters and tweets were bird noises only. I’ve always loved birds and through the years our family has had pet parakeets and canaries and it has always been fun to listen to them jibber-jabbering to their toys, talking a blue streak, chirping or singing away, truly a sign of a healthy and happy little feathered friend. My canary Buddy has been with me for two and one-half years today. He is truly “my buddy” and I think the world of him, and then some. But my love of birds does not stop with my pet. I also enjoy the wild birds – their antics, or beautiful voices once the sun comes up on a still Summer morn, or even the long, mournful cooing of a mourning dove. We’ve even had crows here in the neighborhood through the years – we’d listen to their loud caw, caw, caw as they flew from tree to tree. It sounded a little the old T.V. show “Hee Haw” sometimes. I like interacting with the outside birds, hearing their song and whistling back to them. They would continue for an hour if you were so inclined and your whistler did not get too parched and dry. I was getting better at identifying some of the birds at Council Point Park, even if I did not see the actual bird, but I have decided to abandon that weekend trip until the Fall much as I hate to do so. The area is too marshy and with the humidity and all our rain, I suspect it will soon become a haven for mosquitoes. While walking this morning, I passed several quagmires and toadstools aplenty from all our recent rains plus more rain is in the forecast. So, I mapped out a similar length route today, away from the water, so we’ll see how that goes. I got three miles in today, but no duck tales to be told.

Query: why do people use the term “birdbrain” – birds are far from stupid. From their perch high in the sky, birds can spot food in the street, a treat or a bird bath from the highest tree top.

In the grocery store parking lot yesterday, someone had left behind a half-eaten pizza and at least twenty seagulls honed in on the bright red pizza box, and had flipped it open and were taking crusts to go – in fact, two of them playing tug of war with an especially long piece of crust. Still others were playing tiddlywinks with the pepperoni pieces that were scattered around the parking lot. They were so raucous and swooping and diving, I was hoping the congealed cheese might glue their mouths shut for awhile. No birdbrains there – they know a good thing when they see it. You don’t ever want to go to A&W and mindlessly toss an onion ring or bite of your footlong bun to a seagull there because in record time he will jump up on the hood of your car to demand more. I saw it many times when my mom and I used to go to A&W.

The birds sit high in the sky and spy the owner of the birdfeeder once they open the door, with the seed container in hand. This morning, I watched in amusement as a squirrel was dangling dangerously over a huge feeder causing it to list precariously and spill seed everywhere while he greedily used his paws like scoops to shovel out sunflower seeds and birdseed into his mouth. Well you are not a bird so what gives you the right Mr. Squirrel? The mourning doves and pigeons saw him and the spilled seeds and sped over on their short, stubby legs to grab their fair share. The starlings were stalking about, clearly mad, as they tried to butt in and snatch some of the seeds that they figured belonged to them. Three jays were calling angrily trying to threaten the squirrel with bodily damage from their sharp beaks. A row of angry sparrows lined up like soldiers and were wearing equally angry looks as they chattered to one another about “their” seeds. The squirrel was not paying any attention to any of them … he continued his calisthenics to pilfer anything within his reach. Well the trickle-down theory just doesn’t apply to Economics 101 – life isn’t easy is it? So, I guess you can say this post is for the birds.

Nope, this is not a post about the ongoing NBA playoffs. I’m not a basketball fan, or a sports fan of any type, for that matter. This is more like an “ode to a peach” (smile). This morning I had the most-luscious peach as a “chaser” to my oatmeal. Not sliced on top, not diced throughout; no, I just enjoyed that fuzzy little fruit by hanging my head over the sink and letting its juicy goodness dribble down my chin and into the drain. Well, that’s the very best way to enjoy Summer’s juicy fruits. Last week at Meijer I bought a half-dozen peaches that were as hard as my head and I used the old tried-and-true method of quick ripening them by stuffing them in a brown paper bag and crumpling down the top. Sure enough, four days later I opened the bag and presto-magic, the peaches smelled heavenly and were ripe and ready to eat. I had a small agenda of errands today, so I factored in my exercise by walking around Meijer about five or six times, stopping here, there and everywhere – I did rack up a mile and half of steps. I got some more peaches and some pluots – been meaning to try the latter hybrid which is supposed to be a cross between a plum and an apricot. Summer arrives a week from today, but Mother Nature’s sweet treats are already there for the tasting. While I like my fruit au natural, my mom could take any fruit, and after donning her apron and propping up her cookbook, she’d bake up a pie, cobbler or a kuchen that was to die for. Years ago my father worked for a small manufacturing plant that was built on the outskirts of a huge farm. The farmer sold the land and invited the plant’s workers to pick their own fruit from his orchards and corn from his cornfield. We often had fruit in brown bags, at various ripening stages, to be ready to eat or develop into a delicious dessert. When my mom wasn’t baking up goodies, she was stewing up applesauce and “putting it up” for Winter. If I shut my eyes, I can picture her making pear kuchen, a laborious process of peeling pears, arranging them onto a layer of fresh-baked shortbread, then ladling out dollops of heavy whipping cream which was then garnished with chocolate curls. Yummy! Or, perhaps she was serving up hot peach cobbler, with vanilla ice cream and cinnamon sugar on top. I’m wondering why I never packed on the pounds in those days; adolescent metabolism, I guess. … but I did tuck away a few peachy keen dessert memories to be sure.

Much earlier today I was peering out the window at the teeming rain and willing it to stop so I could go for a walk. The torrential stream finally abated, but the spigot continued to trickle so I made a second cup of coffee and sat down to write this post. It’s probably better for my allergies anyway. Last night I shut off the lights at 9:00 p.m. since I figured the neighbors with their incessant fireworks would be taking the night off due to the weather, so why not treat myself to an earlier bedtime? I woke up early this morning and put on my radio headphones then curled up in bed to catch up on what happened with the devechon that was expected to wreak havoc through the Midwest, including parts of southeast Michigan. Luckily, it appears it subsided in strength and velocity and ended up being a “flooding event” instead – well, flooding is no picnic either. I checked my basement and it was bone dry as it usually is since the sewer basins were repaired in the early 90s. Before that, however, our house had massive flood damage in the late 60s. Unfortunately, in August of 1969, my father had taken me to Germany to visit his relatives and my mom and grandmother were left here alone for three weeks. It stormed the first night and the sewer water flooded the basement up to the bottom step. The neighbor across the street came over to help pump out the mess and my mom and grandmother spent the next three weeks getting rid of the soiled and saturated rugs, pulling up tiles and when the water was completely gone, they had to wash the basement wall with straight bleach and then repaint it.

I read up on the term “devechon” yesterday; the definition seemed similar to an event we had here in the early 80s where we had straight-line, high-velocity winds that did a lot of damage Downriver. We were without power during a scorching mid-July. Many small and spindly trees in the Fort Street median sustained wind damage and were forevermore bent over, their thin stakes having been useless to support them in the high wind. Many, if not most of them, were eventually cut down. I remember our lawn needed cutting and you could see how the winds had blown through and just flattened the grass as if hair pomade had been combed down and slicked through it. I was working at a law firm downtown and our offices were on the 11th floor. The high-velocity winds caught the corner office and blew out most of the windows. As the wind raged, it was scattering the senior partner’s files, paperwork and mementoes around the office as well as whipping most of those items right out the window as we watched in horror. The soaking rain poured into the office doing significant damage to the carpet and curtains. At home we had no power for over a week. The power was out during the week of the Wyandotte Street Fair and thousands flocked to that street festival to find the stores were devoid of cool air and many shops never even opened. No one had a generator in place. There were very few street vendors as well. I Googled to see if there was anything on file about this horrid weather event. I was surprised to find a huge write-up and it was indeed categorized as a derecho. http://www.crh.noaa.gov/dtx/stories/1980derecho.php.

So this morning, I’m feeling very grateful that we sustained no damage and dodged this weather bullet. Devastating natural disasters always fill me with dread and sadness upon hearing the aftermath – I will keep these people in my prayers after their whole world has been rocked.

An uncomfortable muggy and warmish walk this morning but I got ‘er done and 2 ½ miles under my belt. When I opened the screen door, this monstrous rabbit jumped out in front of the door and fairly flew under the gate and into the backyard. All I saw was the flash of a white powder puff tail and huge feet after I startled him and then he was gone. Talk about a jackrabbit start!! And no, I will not admit he was more scared of me than I was of him. I think he had been sitting in front of the garden near the stoop, munching grass and contemplating life, when I opened the door and scared both of us. Cwazy wabbit!!

After my heart stopped pounding, I was on my way. It was an unusually tranquil morning and I suspect a lot of kids are already out of school for Summer vacation. I went a different route, seeking a little shade, and turned up a tree-lined street. As I walked up Capitol, I saw two objects on the front lawn of a small house. Since I wear my old eyeglasses from about ten years ago when I walk or exercise, the two objects were a little fuzzy. As I neared the house I kept squinting and straining to see what I thought was a bright yellow duck bill; no, wait – make that two duck bills, two duck heads. Nah, it couldn’t be. Thinking of the old adage “if it looks like a duck …” I kept walking closer and they never moved. By then I figured they were decoys and I could hardly wait to get up close to check them out. Surprise! Two very live mallard ducks – a drake and a female. They were huge and just plopped down on the grass and staring at me as if I didn’t belong there. I stood there mesmerized and then they looked bored and just waddled away to another patch of grass. I wished I had some bread to toss to them. Perhaps they were someone’s pets? I wanted to go scoop them up, tuck one under each arm and take them down to Council Point Park with their brethren, lest any harm come to them. They were so sedate, not quacking like their noisy friends. The male was stunning with his vibrant colored feathers, bright bill and iridescent head and the female’s coloring was drab and a mottled brown. This just made my day.
P.S. I hope Elmer Fudd doesn’t hear about these cwazy wildlife encounters this morning!

I almost didn’t walk today as I knew the ninety percent humidity would make it oppressive and clammy from the all-day rain yesterday, but wanting that energized feeling that I get from my walks, I trudged out anyway. I neared the Fergusons’ home, the very last house on the block, and thought I’d stop for a quick visit if they were out on the porch as they usually are every morning. The Fergusons have become permanent fixtures on that porch from May through October since retiring decades ago. When I worked downtown, I’d pass them every day, always stopping briefly for a quick exchange of pleasantries, commenting with a complaint or a compliment about the weather, then I hurried on to catch the bus. The Fergusons are in their nineties now, with children long grown and gone from their nest, and they are great, as well as great-great grandparents. They have had their share of sorrow with their children, including their daughter, a childhood friend of mine, who developed M.S. and a son who was a policeman shot in the line of duty and forced to retire early in his career.

After noting the absence of the Fergusons, my thoughts shifted to my own parents who would have celebrated their sixtieth wedding anniversary today. There was plenty to ponder about my parents as I walked – June 11, 1953 is merely a date on the calendar because theirs was never a marriage made in Heaven, but instead a union filled with heartache and despair. Had their marriage lasted, it would not have been one where after one spouse dies, the remaining spouse follows shortly thereafter as life has ceased to be worth living. My parents had bitter fights and there was much name-calling after which there were days, if not weeks, of the silent treatment. Neither would acquiesce; both were very stubborn. But my father had a filthy mouth and a volatile temper. My mother could hold her own, but without the swearing … or the temper tantrums … or the throwing. My parents were never demonstrative with one another, and I cannot recall ever seeing a hug, or embrace, or even a peck on the cheek initiated by either one. In fact, the picture above, which was taken at their 25th wedding anniversary dinner, is quite deceiving as they both looked happy. Their smiles were for show as I stood before them valiantly trying to create some memories with my pocket camera, while they toasted each another. There was a tiered cake with a happy couple on top and doves holding silver ribbons, rings, bells and trinkets. The gathering was at The Lincoln Inn and consisted of my grandmother and two couples, who were long-time friends of the family. For me, the celebration was wedged between cramming for final exams at Wayne State University and working a full shift at the diner both weekend days.

Fast forward to five years later. When the hourglass was only half empty, my father decided he wanted a “new life” and after thirty years of marriage he wanted out. He made this announcement of his impending defection on Christmas Day 1983, while we all sat amidst opened and unopened gifts. My mother, ever the pragmatist, told me to immediately round up all my father’s gifts from us and we would return them to the store and get our money back (which we did). The look on his face was priceless. Well, good riddance to garbage as the saying goes. His exit left no empty hole in our hearts or our minds.

My mother often said that the only good thing to come from the marriage was her only child. Unfortunately, my father had such little respect for my mother that he took every bit of money in their joint bank account and joint annuity account and then fled the country a few weeks later. Except for the financial hardship, my mother was none the worse for his mid-life crisis and hasty departure. We got steel doors on the front and side, just in case he decided he wanted to make a re-entry sometime and this would not be tolerated – a protective order filed with the Lincoln Park Police Department substantiated our wishes. We repainted, repapered and re-arranged the inside of the house and got new colonial blue siding to replace the putrid pea green/moss green combo that had been there before. I pulled out all the overgrown bushes and made perimeter gardens for the backyard, filling them up with beautiful rosebushes and colorful perennials. We also replaced every bush and tree in the front garden – by 1985, after all these renovations were accomplished, we had transformed our home to our liking and in the process erased all the vestiges of my father’s existence.

So, thirty years later, on the other side of the hourglass, my mom is gone, having lived twenty-seven years after my father left –peaceful years which were not filled with bickering, name-calling and heartache. Her many medical maladies were not the only obstacles she overcame. She was a survivor – one smart cookie who never crumbled.

Well, I’m creaking along on this Monday morning and feeling every bit my 57 years of age. Perhaps I am like those weekend warriors who try to cram too many sports or too much yard work into the roughly 60 hours, a/k/a the weekend. In my case, my boss was on business in Denver most of last week, so I took that opportunity, plus the cool and rain-free temps, to take longer walks. I am paying for it today. This morning I woke up stiff and sore and felt as though a Mack truck had run me over. Dare I admit to just plain getting older or is this creakiness merely the result of racking up too many miles in a short time period? The preferred version will be it is just a dreary, rain-filled morning wreaking havoc with my bones so Linda is less than limber. Maybe this malady goes along with those ever-creeping gray hairs that I am finding. In fact, I notice those springy little gray (and gulp … even white) tendrils that are clinging to my temples are getting more commonplace. I simply have ignored them thus far and because I have been coiling my very long, nearly waist-length locks into a neat bun, the top of my head has not visible when I glance in the mirror once the bun is in place.

I picked up my new glasses on Friday and the lenses are increased strength and I am now in trifocals. The ophthalmologist assured me I’ll be able to see anything and everything 100 percent better than before. Well, maybe I liked the former strength better or perhaps rose-colored glasses are even better still in this less-than-perfect world in which we live. Hmmmmmmm.

I went to have my hair trimmed Friday – lopped off was more like it. I’d not had a haircut in nearly a year so I let the stylist take off a good four inches. She dried my hair then handed me my eyeglasses plus a magnifying mirror to check out her handiwork from behind and the sides and top. Wow!!! I could not get past seeing all the gray hair woven through the top of my head. What a rude awakening!! Where the h*ll did all these silver strands come from? Surely, this was not me who looked back in the mirror? I complimented her on the haircut and hastily grabbed hanks of my hair, bent over and fastened a claw clip back around a quick and messy bun. This is what I call my librarian look – good to go in five minutes and less muss and fuss than hot rollers, curling irons and magic potions to create the perfect coiffure. I used to be so vain in my twenties and thirties that I would never leave the house without every hair in place, freshly manicured fingernails and toenails plus an hour’s worth of makeup, expertly applied to look like I was a natural beauty, not a young woman whose looks were enhanced by makeup. Ha ha. My mom told me I was too vain for my own good, but I just let that phrase go in one ear and out the other. Today, I have pared my beauty routine, such as it is, to a minimal amount of time. Gone are the hair combs, bands, or baubles and beads for my side-swept ponytail or French braid, as well as the jewelry, clothes and accessories that was my trademark look back then. Today, it is sweats and tee-shirts and shorts and I guess you can say that this is the real me. I am comfortable with myself now and vanity has taken a back seat.

A month before my thirtieth birthday, my mom read that a photography experience called “Glamour Shots” was coming to Southland Mall. Glamour Shots is a travelling photography studio that sets up several trailers in local malls and they have professional hairstylists and make-up artists and a variety of themed clothing and accessories for your head-and-shoulders Glamour Shots photo. It was a birthday present from my mom and I was so excited to go. The session sure was a lot of fun, just getting primped and fussed over for an hour and then photographs being taken. I chose a red leather top for one shot and the other was a blue well-worn denim jacket for the other. They mailed negatives a few weeks later and you chose your favorites. My mom picked out two and we had the portraits framed, one for my mom’s room and the other for the T.V. room. From time to time I’ll glance at these two pictures and wonder who that young girl was and ask myself if it was really me? I seemed so young and innocent back then. The last few years have been tough for me – my mom’s failing health and sudden death plus my work status all have taken their toll on me. Like a military man who earns his stripes as he progresses through the ranks, I’m able to account for each gray hair and line on my face. I know in my heart that I am made of stronger stuff than I was as I embarked on my thirtieth year. Thankfully, I am my mother’s daughter and have incorporated her personality and strength in my very being.

I’ll borrow Scarlett O’Hara’s famous line from “Gone With The Wind” which sums up my motto about housework: “I’ll think about that tomorrow – tomorrow is another day” – I love that line!!! My mom was a much more fastidious housekeeper than I shall ever hope to be and clearly the good housekeeper gene skipped a generation. Last night before going to bed, I set the alarm to get up very early but it rang and I rolled over and snapped it off; I didn’t even bother with the “snooze” function. Last night someone close by was shooting off firecrackers until past 11:00 p.m. and kept me awake. This morning, from the cozy confines of my bed, I decided that dealing with dust bunnies, so I could dispense with all my chores before leaving on a walk, could wait another day. At 7:45 a.m. there was a cool breeze and the sun was tucked behind the clouds, perfect to embark on the 3 ¼ mile round trip adventure to Council Point Park. Today I walked solo the entire walk along the Park perimeter path – there were no bicyclists either; just me.

Bunnies were everywhere this morning, munching on wild rhubarb leaves or savoring the lavender-colored wild morning glories that were laced throughout the grass. The bunnies generally bolt once they catch sight of me, but I guess I was not deemed a threat to them today so they stayed put.

The cottonwood was a’flyin’ this morning, and, while I peered through the marsh reeds, I saw hundreds of cottonwood polka dots drifting along the murky Ecorse Creek waters.

Around the bend I saw about thirty Canada Geese grouped together and pecking at the grass and the pathway for food. There were actually two families of geese and goslings – some goslings were still very young and others looked much older. I’m sure the younger family were “my” goslings I saw nearly a month ago and they’ve grown so big. While they still had their yellowish, fuzzy-looking feathers, they were not the cute little chicks that were toddling around after their mom. The second family of goslings had completely lost their fuzzy look and instead were pale imitations of their parents. They were gangly looking with necks and legs that were not in proportion to their body. In fact, they were kind of homely, not unlike a youngster’s awkward “tween” years. I’ve got several photos in my albums which I keep hidden just for that reason – my cat eye glasses, my hair is some type of frizzy hairdo gone bad or I had grossly uneven bangs. Just as I was wishing I had some dry bread to scatter for the geese, the gander came rushing ahead of the bunch with his dander up. He was squawking loudly and flapping his wings, clearly thinking his family was in danger. I get the same look from my canary Buddy, when I take out his fruits and veggies for the night when I’m ready to put him to bed – I call it showing me his fractious face. But this guy was bigger than Buddy and I quickly moved off the path and to a grassy area as I didn’t like the menacing look he was sending me.

Next, I passed an alcove with a footpath leading down to a small cement precipice which juts out over the creek. I’ve never gone down the path, but there sat a young boy, intent on watching the water where he had cast his line and a shimmering lure was bobbing up and down in the water. If I squinted, I could imagine him wearing a straw hat and clad in britches rolled up to the knees, bare toes dipping into the water, a’ la Huck Finn. I was tempted to call out “hey” to him, but he perched precariously on that square landing and I didn’t want to startle him. I suspect he won’t be having a fish fry tonight as it is likely he snagged more cottonwood fluff on that lure than anything else.

All too quickly I was back at the entrance of the Park and it was time to head home To me, I too had gone fishin’, but my quiet reflective spot to ponder life and commune with nature was the perimeter path around the Park. So, fiddle dee dee, I’ll catch up with those dust bunnies tomorrow –I had a chance to get up close and personal with real bunnies and the rest of Nature’s bounty.

… me up. I woke up early and was out the door in record time to arrive at Council Point Park before the Ecorse Creek cleaning crew volunteers arrived at 9:00 a.m. While walking the Park perimeter and deep in thought, the sound of quacking interrupted my woolgathering. I went to the water’s edge and stood behind a copse of trees. Soon, huge ripples appeared in the still water and a group of mallard ducks came out of nowhere. The leader of the pack was quacking noisily while the others were swimming placidly, not making a noise, queued up like a group of nuns walking to church and following one another in stony silence. From my vantage point I crouched down and opened the pocket of my sweatshirt and grabbed a bag of stale bread I crumbed up for them last night. I opened the bag and tossed out a few morsels, watching them skitter across the creek. Soon, there was a frenzy of activity as mallards started paddling fast and furiously to retrieve some morsels. In their haste to eat these unexpected treats, a cacophony of quacking began as they informed their pals that there was food, and not the usual bugs and grubs from the muddy waters of the Ecorse Creek. It seems they momentarily let their collective guard down in their glee to get at the goodies; they forgot that a human being might be present. Then, as if on cue, several of the ducks glanced around as if to say “thank you” even though their benefactor could not be seen in their line of sight. I reached into the bag and tossed another handful of crumbed-up bread and once again they look surprised but scrambled quickly, their wide, webbed feet treading and paddling furiously while quacking with great gusto. Some of the bread must have sunk down and I saw feathery butts making a quick duck dive to retrieve their breakfast. I wonder what reaction I might have gotten with donuts? It made me smile at their antics. My house is filled with ducks of every variety. My mom had an affinity for ducks and geese, which matched my affinity for teddy bears. Over the years, we visited every country store we could, and perused specialty catalogs as well until we amassed quite an assortment of resin, porcelain and wooden duck decoys in every shape and size which are now displayed throughout the house. The waterfowl doesn’t stop there – there are enough geese for a gaggle in the living room and the bedroom. Not everyone can say they have a red Pendleton tartan plaid, be-ribboned goose named Deloose guarding the hallway between the two bedrooms. And, because we ran out of shelves and tables for the ducks to sit on, there are pictures of ducks galore. As I watched the ducks feeding it made me feel like a kid again, back in High Park in Toronto where my parents took me on a Sunday drive to feed the ducks and swans. I got the same kick out of seeing them then as I did today. I tossed the third load of bread out and a resounding round of quacks thanked me for the effort. Feelin’ ducky after a 3 ¼-mile walk on an exhilaratingly cool day.