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.
