Remember the Back Yard

We had world peace in our backyard one summer.  It was one of the last summers that I lived in the country, and I remember it quite clearly.  Summer came early – at Easter – with the purchase of three dyed ducklings.  One for each child.  They were kept in the shelter of a wire cage and under the awning of the old barn.  The boys tended the ducks daily, and, of course, the cages were elevated so that a passing wild dog or coyote couldn’t have supper.

At that time, we had a one-eyed barn cat called Celia, a petite calico who reproduced way too often.  (Yes, yes, I know – but she was semi-wild, and so we didn’t spay her.)  She was one-eyed because she once ran afoul of another creature, her eyeball swelled and popped out.  She kept the mouse population to a tolerable level and regularly chased birds.

We also had a dog called Jack, a boxer-sharpei mix, who was as stupid as he was cute.  He and Celia maintained a cordial relationship when he went outside to poop.  They chased good naturedly until Celia got tired of it and scampered up a tree, then Jack would come to the door to ask to sit in his favorite chair and sleep the day away. 

At dusk there would be deer not far from the house, and once night fell raccoons inevitably rattled around.  It was a balanced yard-  full of characters, but overall a good community.  No harm befell anyone until Jeffrey the duck seemingly took his own life in adolescence.  Just before school, the boys and I went out to find that Jeffrey hanging from his own cage wall by the neck.  Upon closer examination, it appeared that, in fact, a foreign creature of some kind had snatched at Jeffrey, and in attempting to pull him through the cage, snapped his neck. 

The loss of Jeffrey was mourned.  He was buried out near the creek, and our lives, as they must, moved on.  The ducks grew enough to be freed to wander around the yard, ostensibly to grow to make their way to the creek more happily than Jeffrey had.  They wandered around the yard, and when they failed to follow instincts to water, we bought and filled a kiddie pool for them. 

These two male ducks (Ootka and Donald) nested together.  When Jack became overzealous in his teasing, Ootka would honk at Jack and that would be the end of that.  Celia wasn’t interested in ducks who outweighed her; so she kept to the rodents. 

I clearly remember one mid-July evening.  I was sitting on the side stoop of the house, not far from the ducks’ roosting spot.  Celia was splayed out on the stoop, cooling her very pregnant self.  Jack was bouncing around near the ducks without menace, occasionally racing down the driveway to bark at a particularly loud passing motorcycle.  The ducks had bathed in the pool and had commenced rooting around the murky hedge for bugs.  None of these creatures gave the others pause for concern or care.  The yard was wide enough and generous enough for us all. It was – we were – a beautiful little community of life. 

This past week, people around here became territorial, snarling, jealous, cruel, uncaring, selfish, petty, and mean.   Perhaps it was the full moon.  Perhaps it is human nature.  But, when those around me become small, hard, and narrow, I like to think of the yard that summer. 

We were all different, yet the yard was big enough for all.  We all had our own ways of living and our own agendas.  Together we had endured loss; we lived with good-natured teasing; we spent time alone; we cared for each other; we spent time together; we protected each other; we tolerated and even loved those different from ourselves, those with goals and lifestyles different from our own.  We shared the yard.