Tales from the Shark Tank

Saturday was an absolutely marvelous day. The weather could not have been more cooperative if it had tried: incredibly clear, pleasantly warm and not terribly humid. I met a good friend for breakfast and a meander through the local farmer?s market. We dropped our produce at her house (much closer than mine), concluded that the dress she had did not fit quite properly and couldn?t be reasonably altered in the time available, and went shopping, where she found a marvelous garment that had the additional merits of being on sale and styled in such a fashion that as she loses more weight, I can take it in so she can keep wearing it through another size change. Lunch was followed by further shopping. We found a new shop carrying a style of clothing that both of us greatly like, and haven?t been able to get easily since we left Bloomington. There we found out several things. ?One size? garments fit neither of us. She?s too short; I?m too tall. Straight jumpers make me look like I?m auditioning for a role as a sturdy architectural column. And my friend is wonderful, not that I didn’t already know that. As I was dithering over a dress that really did look spectacular on me due to budgetary constraints, she took both dress and decision out of my hands and got it for me. Did I mention I have wonderful friends? And then I went home and finally put the rest of my perennials in the ground. Eventually we might actually have a garden that even looks intentional!

Sunday my wonderful husband did a yeoman’s job of cleaning in our room, so that I could at long last move my sewing machines back in there. The sewing room was also the guest room, and our housemate is living in there. And no matter how many times she told me to just come in and sew, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It’s her room; my mind wouldn’t encompass the invasion. The end result was that I’d done very little sewing since she moved in. Planned projects, yes. Cut them out, even. But that was all.

So now I can sew again, and I find my mind positiviely teeming with everything from outfits to quilt designs. I’ve a bit more cleanup to accomplish (much of which will result in a major run to the local Goodwill), and then I shall be off and running. Who, me, busy? If I weren’t, it wouldn’t be me!

Last week also saw my young son, my housemate and me swimming at the local indoor waterpark. Indoors is wonderful for the things it lacks: insects, migraine inducing glare, and sun to burn us thoroughly fairskinned types. We had a wonderful time, and now I know exactly how to wear out my 6 year old. Take him swimming for a couple of hours. We two adult types spelled each other off. For me, at least, that meant floating on my back in the adult pool. I?m so buoyant I can cross my arms behind my head, cross my ankles, and just relax. I daresay I could go to sleep, but I think the lifeguards would panic if I did. They certainly check frequently enough when I float for more than a minute or so!

I also took up a twice-weekly water aerobics class at the same facility. I haven?t done that before, and my last venture into an exercise class seemed to provide me more proof of how out of shape I was than assistance in improving the situation. That being the case, I went to the beginning level class. I don?t know if it?s that I?ve been running around more recently or that the class is lower key or both, but the instructor took me aside at the end of class and gently told me that I might want to consider the intermediate class. I had, quite unconsciously, been singing along with the CD she was using. (It was the Beatles Yellow Submarine, ok?) As she so kindly pointed out, if I was actually getting an aerobic workout, I shouldn?t have had enough breath for that. I?m going back tonight. And we?ll just see how it goes!

I have learned more about the procreative habits of ducks this year than in the entire collection of my prior voyages around the sun. There was the mama duck that managed to hide in a really fairly small patch of grass behind the air conditioner, defending her nest against all monsters and repairmen. There were some ducks in Broad Ripple who fancied themselves veritable Don Juans of Duckdom, and who importuned one particular female duck repeatedly while a group of us drank tea and commented. And now there is my own personal duckie.

Yes indeed, gentle readers, the ducklings staged their appearance. (Ok, six of them did; five eggs did not hatch and remain in the nest.) Five of them actually hatched in the presence of Mama Duck, who evidently then gave up on the others and led her little brood to the pond. One, however, hatched late. I have since learned that isn’t unusual. I was out gardening when something suddenly began peeping loudly at my feet. I looked down. There, coming out from under my deck, was a tiny solitary ball of brown fluff with a bill, webbed feet, and a very big voice. I called Joseph over to look. He has now seen, petted, and fed a real live duckling, still with a bit of egg yolk on its feathers. That peep is an alarm call, meant to summon Mother. I am here to tell you that it is effective across species lines; I could not leave that little creature alone. It quit peeping so loudly as soon as I scooped it up in my hand, and shifted to a very soft sound I really can’t describe well. I investigated the yard, finding no sign of the maternal duck or the remainer of the brood. So I collected Joseph and set off toward the pond I thought she’d come from.

I found her and her babies, but they would have nothing to do with my little one. When I put it down, they tried to peck it. I was later told they’d peck it to death, and indeed Joseph figured out very quickly that was what they had in mind and told my so in absolute horror. I, on the other hand, figured out that the duck had imprinted on me at its response to the assault. It ran between my ankles. So ok, I am now surrogate mother to a duck. I don’t know what temperature they need to be kept at; I don’t know what they eat. I know they can swim, but not whether they need to. Talk about clueless!

Ah, but I have a friend who is a licensed wild bird rehabber. Trouble was, she wasn’t home. I put it in a 2 quart measuring cup with water, but it peeped its distress and tried to climb out. Ok, I went back to carrying it. Then I thought. I’m not quick enough to catch bugs two handed, let alone when carrying a duckling. But wait; when we go feed the ducks, we toss out offerings of bread. Ok, I got out some wheat bread. Duck seemed to have a little trouble with it, so I moistened it with a bit of water, tore it into tiny pieces to fit a tiny beak, and offered them on the tips of my fingers. That worked; the little thing actually ate the equivalent of about half a slice of bread that way. But still, what to do with a wild duckling? I was terrified that I would do something wrong, or fail to meet some need, and that my 6 year old would learn abruptly about mortality.

So, with plans in place to work on the case that has a hearing tomorrow, I instead drove across town to the Eagle Creek Nature Center. Sarah held the duck, except when it chose to ride on a hand towel in my purse. Joseph watched it in enchantment the whole way. And in due time, we walked into the Nature Center to be greeted by a sweet lady who was not even vaguely surprised that we had brought her a duckling. She also had a baby robin and two “mystery birds”. It was interesting to see how much more developed the duckling was. And Joseph got to feed the wide-open baby bird mouths, and watch them squirm around.

All in all it was a grand adventure. The duckling is safe and going to a professional waterfowl rehabber where it will be with other orphaned ducks. Evidently being alone will kill a duckling all by itself. My friend who does rehab called me about 10:00 last night, having just gotten Sarah’s frantic e-mail. She told me we did everything exactly right, which is a relief. But you know, I think I’m just as glad the other five eggs show no signs of life. I’m really not ready to be surrogate mother to ducks. The human fledglings are quite challenging enough.

It’s definitely high summer in Indiana. The temperature is ranging in the high 80’s, and the humidity is in the mid 90’s. You know you’re in trouble when it’s too hot to walk comfortably at dawn. It has come very close to my concept of hell, which I define as double 90’s. Ick.

The duck is still sitting back there. Incubation period is 28 days. We found her on June 1st. I have no idea how long she’ll sit if the eggs don’t hatch. I seriously doubt the short time we chased her away would have hurt them materially. She was gone for less than 5 minutes, and I’m fairly sure she would have to leave occasionally for food or a drink of water. I don’t know a whole lot about the nesting habits of ducks, though, so I couldn’t say with any certainty. And while I have seen her gulp a cicada, she did not compare it to chicken. Of course, there weren’t any smart-alec meerkats around for her to learn it from either.

But two of my fledglings and I went to the Talbot Street Art Fair yesterday. It’s three blocks long, and in the two hours we had, we only saw about half of it. That’s ok. It was horribly hot and humid, and the time limit of needing to get to Wick’s folk’s house for my mother in law’s birthday dinner was actually a blessing. Otherwise, as K. pointed out, we might have kept going and oohing until we fell over from the heat. Much better to find ourselves on our way out because I had to get home and I was the one driving.

I got a bowl with a dryad perched on the side of it. It’s a lovely piece of fantasy. She’s a girl, albeit with rather rough skin, until her calves and ankles shift gradually into roots that twine in the bowl’s bottom. It’s a very cool piece of work, and very original. There were several artists there whose work I’ve also seen at cons I’ve gone to. It was interesting. When I started going to this particular fair years ago, such fantasy work would have been in stark contrast to most of the things there. Now it is not. I find the trend intriguing. It may actually be that in some respects Indiana is becoming moderately less mundane. I certainly hope so.

Joseph and Sarah and I went to a house filk Saturday night, as well. I wasn’t altogether sure about taking the little guy, but I was pretty sure if he liked it, he would like it a whole lot. Well, he did. He got the plot of a bardic circle (go around and take a turn or pass) very quickly, and when his turn came, he by heaven walked to the middle of the circle and sang. I was so proud of him I could have popped, and the other adults gave him lots of enthusiastic encouragement. He wants to know when there will be another “music party”. I don’t know, but I suspect we’ll be there.

And I’m working, much to Joseph’s chagrin. He wants his Mommy home with him all the time, and is not shy about saying so. The child protection/ religious restriction case I took goes to the next stage before the court next Monday. I am decidedly *not* looking forward to it. But I’ll be ready and I’ll do my best. After that, it’s in the lap of the gods. I hope they’re paying attention.

My housemate just wandered in to see if I was ok. Knowing that it had been quite some time since I sat down to report on my peregrinations, I checked for comments. There I found Kerry’s well feathered nest of avian puns, and sat here howling with laughter. Yes, indeed, the intrepid adventurer is alive and well, and has not been devoured by marauding mallards. That duck is still sitting there; the eggs have not hatched. I wonder if they’re going to. If she’s still there in a few more days, I shall investigate the incubation period of duck eggs. Meanwhile, I’ve grown accustomed to being hissed at every time I turn on the hose to water my garden.

Joseph has begun swimming lessons and adores them. On Tuesday and Thursday mornings I have much ado to keep him from running out the door and waiting in Dragon Frankie until the time to depart is upon us. Since he gets up before 7:00 a.m., and his lesson isn’t until 10:30 a.m., that would be quite a wait. He has also discovered Library as a place of infinite wonders. Fortunately, it’s a block away.

Li and I had our friend Dorothea in for a week’s visit from Wisconsin last week. She managed to blog a bit in the midst of it, but somehow I didn’t. I was too busy running around to sit down and type. She can get to Merrillville, up in the north west corner of Indiana, pretty easily, but getting down to Indy is far more of a pain. So she goes to Merrillville and I meet her there and bring her back. The trip is easy enough, and should be uneventful. Well, along about 10:00 p.m., when we should have been back long since, I was on the phone to Li and my husband, saying “standby. Frankie is cranky.” Turned out to be a sticking internal valve in the engine. If it had been an old car, it would have needed a tuneup. So we got home a bit past 11:00 (original e.t.a. having been about 9:00) when Li had to leave for work at 6:30 a.m. But the dragon is all fixed now, and got us to Merriville on the return to send Dorothea home with seconds to spare. I mean that; the bus was loading when I pulled into the parking lot. Ah well; Dorothea got home and so did I, so all’s well.

Oh, and the body shedders? The cicadas, aka the 17 year locusts, have emerged. In droves. Now, most insects are relatively little. These things are huge. They’re about an inch to an inch and a half long, with wingspan to match. They’re big enough that you can see them criss-crossing the sky in flight in their droves. I did have the privilege of seeing a kestrel catch a few. The bird had obviously set its sights, because it flew out of the trees behind the house, scooped up at least 3 of the monster bugs, executing a perfect loop-the-loop in the process, and settled on a fence to swallow the feast. Then it preened. I swear you could almost hear it whispering “I showed them. I’m a Fierce Predator, I am.” Another bit of amusement came when the local paper felt it necessary to print a warning that if you are allergic to shellfish or shrimp, do not try to cook and eat the cicadas. Evidently the relationship is close enough to trigger the allergy. Personally, I can’t conceive of trying the experiment in the first place.

The distinguishing characteristic most reported in the media (yes, cicadas are evidently newsworthy) is that the bugs are incredibly noisy. Radio, with its volume control options, does not do them justice. Live and in person (or in bug, as it were), I swear they make heavy metal rock music sound quiet and sedate. They’re clumsy, too, or at least they don’t watch where they’re flying. And I am here to tell you, when something the size of a river stone and just as hard flies into you, it hurts! Most of all, though, they’re a mess. See, at some point after they emerge from their 17 year pupation period, they shed their exoskeletons. What that means is that every available leafy surface is covered in what look like motionless cicadas. Walking under the trees is an exercise in crunchiness. I know the shed bits will disintigrate fairly quickly. But in the meantime, I have been picking locust shells out of bushes, gardening tools, mint, sage bush, peonies and occasionally Joseph’s hair. Hasn’t dissuaded him from playing under the bushes, though. He has the classic, stereotypical small-boy fascination with anything insectoid.

I wonder. Is it possible to feed the cicadas to the duck?

Our air conditioning was repaired this morning. It turned out simply to need freon. Given that it’s never had a recharge in the 7 years we’ve been here, I consider that we got off very lightly. The project could not, however, be accomplished without at least a modicum of drama. Picture, if you will, a repairman about 6′4″, 300 pounds, built like a prizefighter. He poked around at the internal workings, confirmed that they were all functioning, and went out to check the freon pressure. He walked around the compressor and reached for the valve. And stopped. I inquired as to the problem. He in turn asked me if I knew I had a duck. He pointed. There, hidden in grass Wick couldn’t reach with a mower, was a 3 pound breathing ball of brown feathers who extended her neck, opened her beak and hissed at us.

Mr. Repairman banged a tool against his freon tank. The duck reared up, hissed at him, and charged. He retreated so fast he landed on his rump. I didn’t laugh, but it wasn’t easy. The disparity in their relative sizes was just too much.

My turn. I got a leaf rake. I didn’t poke the duck; I just disturbed the grass on my side. She charged me, this time leaving her post and flying at me. Yep, it was a nest all right. I later counted 11 eggs, but had more sense than to touch them. (Ok, I’m no fool. I ran. At least I didn’t fall on my ass.) She, in turn, came in for a landing…on her nest. No help there. Score so far: Duck 3, Humans 0.

So I went and got the hose. It took some fairly determined spraying, but she finally left. Needless to say, she did not go far. The repairman was fumbling with his equipment, with the comment that he was afraid to turn his back on the duck. I assured him that I had his back, still holding the hose. He proceeded to recharge the machinery while the duck and I faced off. Every so often she would start a firm march back in the direction of her nest, I would lift the hose, and she would retreat 5 feet. The actual recharge took less than 5 minutes, and then he and I hightailed it out of the back yard. When I reached the corner of the house, I looked back. Sure enough, she was back on her nest. The periscope was still up 10 minutes later when I went back to start putting in plants. The faucet is a good 6 feet away from her, but we watched each other very closely when I turned it on to water the new plants into the ground.

Wick has decided to wait to clip that tall grass. I can’t imagine why.

Today was Memorial Day. I read about the dedication of the WWII memorial in Washington, about a project to gather stories from the several hundred children of Civil War veterans still lving, and on the same front page, about the devastation wrought by the tornadoes that hit here last night. It made me think about how, no matter what holidays come and go, immediate events always claim the lion’s share of our attention because they must.

The thunderstorms and their wind-spawned offspring touched those I know more closely than I like. Some acquaintances of mine lost their trailer when another went through it in some bizarre, tornado spawned mating ritual. The phone tree ran through my housemate, because while people knew C. was and that she was safe, no one knew if J. had been home at the time of impact. It turned out he had been at the neighboring K-Mart, and had stayed until the storm was over. They’re homeless, but both are unhurt.

Another friend made it about a mile from here before her mom called her on her cell phone to tell her that there were fires started by downed power lines, and that she couldn’t get through to the house. She turned around, came back, and spent the night on our sofa. She probably didn’t get much sleep, because last night our son was up with stomach and ear problems. Like most small children, he does not suffer in silence. Not that I’d want him to, and I’m glad I can hear him when he calls for Mommy. Not as easy as usual; our AC died yesterday, so we have been functioning on open windows and fans, with deep gratitude that the weather hasn’t been beastly hot the past couple of days.

A third friend drove her car through what she thought was a puddle. It turned out (after drowning the car) to be knee deep. That’s not a puddle; that’s a temporary lake. I’ll be picking her up from work tomorrow. My husband’s car is dead too, although we don’t know why. The mechanic who looks after both her cars and ours will have his hands rather full tomorrow, I suspect.

And yet as I dealt with all the things that life threw me and those around me, I was ocassionally reminded that yes, it is Memorial Day. I drove by a tiny cemetery on the edge of a farm field to find it decked in flags. I’ve been past it any number of times, but never seen any sign other than its fence that it was still tended by anyone. I found myself wondering if it was so ornamented today because someone’s war dead are there, or simply because it is a cemetery and those with care of it chose to honor the dead buried on what is now their land. I heard the phrase “Gold Star Mothers” on the radio, and it made me think of my Aunt Goldie. She was a Gold Star Mother from WWII, and I grew up hearing stories about my Cousin Jack, who died on Okinawa after the war was officially over. I talked about it in grade school until my classmates were sick of it without really understanding. Now I understand. Goldie was the oldest of 8 siblings; my grandmother Gittel, her sister, was the youngest. Jack died no more than a year before cancer took Gittel. Aunt Goldie and her husband took in the children and raised them. She treated me like another grandchild. I was an adult before I understood that raising my dad and aunt as her own may have been her anwer to losing her only son. I’ll never know for sure, though. I asked her many things, but it never occured to me to inquire why she took her youngest sister’s children. What I do know is that my father says Kaddish for her as well as for his parents.

It’s Memorial Day. All the public ceremonies revolve around remembering those who died in military service. But it’s always seemed to me more important the remember the living; the ones who went on and lived their lives after their sons or husbands or grandsons (and now sometimes daughters) had died. So for me, Memorial Day isn’t only about Cousin Jack anymore. It’s about Aunt Goldie, and all the others like her.