A SHORT, SHORT COUNTRY STORY FOR SEASONED CITY DWELLERS
Author’s Note:
One of the benefits of residing in New Jersey’s southern counties is the
freedom for residents to develop mini farms or homesteads in their own backyards.
Properties here are larger than in the northern counties, and there are few, if
any, restrictions against using the land for growing vegetables or raising
small livestock. It is not unusual for passersby to glimpse the occasional goat
or sheep next to spacious residences, and signs on neatly manicured front lawns
offering local honey or homegrown produce or quilts and other handmade crafts for
sale. In these are reminders that New Jersey is aptly named The Garden State.
I
SUNLIGHT
SEEPS THROUGH the blinds of the window above her bed. She blinks against the
sharpness of the rays, and blinks again, slowly this time, squeezing the
remaining fog of the night’s sleep from her eyes. A sense of contentment steals
over her and she fights the urge to snuggle longer under the warm, welcoming
blankets. It is one of the pleasures of
living in the country, this wakening to bright sunlight and the melody of
songbirds outside her window.
A deep breath, and she rolls out of
bed, not yet fully awake, but sufficiently so to remember that she has a pressing
mission that cannot wait for wakefulness.
Without pausing to throw a robe around her shoulders, she stumbles to the front
door, turns the lock, pulls the door open and conducts a rapid survey of the porch
and lawn. She is afraid to see what she hopes isn’t there...and she is disappointed.
The Mallard family has visited during the night and the front walk, the carefully
laid path that she and her husband labored to build brick by brick, is dotted
again with globs of stinky duck poop.
For some reason the Mallards ignore the
amenities provided for them in her neighbors’ backyard, preferring instead to
nest within the meager pickings in her overgrown flower bed. They spurn their
pond — a kiddie swimming pool that is faithfully cleaned and refilled by their
keepers. They reject the handmade, straw-lined coop erected in the shelter of a
copse of trees at the end of their own backyard, choosing instead to huddle in
the dried-out mulch around her neglected rose bushes.
Two courses of action come to mind:
convince her sleeping husband he needs to tackle another power-washing chore
before leaving for work, or stomp over to the neighbors, the owners of the
Mallard family, and demand that they take care of the mess themselves.
But Jean and Ben are friendly,
caring neighbors. They’re the kind of people who pause to chat in the midst of
chores, hanging laundry or mowing grass. They plough her snow-covered driveway
when she’s away. They share the surplus
from their tomato crop, all the cucumbers hanging on her side of the fence, squash,
peppers and onions galore. They’re the best neighbors. The kind of people
Norman Rockwell painted or Garrison Keillor acclaimed. The kind of people in
short supply in today’s modern, gated communities. Good people. Salt-of-the-earth
people.
So, should she risk straining this
good-neighbor relationship by insisting they wash away the poop left by their
own ducks? Or does she tackle the mess one more stinking time?
Disgust wells up within her. She
slams the door shut and stomps back to the bedroom. The sound stirs her
husband. Or maybe it’s the low growl in her throat that gets him up as she flops
herself onto the edge of the bed.
“Well?” He peers at her through
groggy eyes, and she sees the same anticipation in his that had been in hers
earlier. Her scowl must have answered his question before she opened her lips,
because his anticipation disappears and is replaced by a grimace.
“I’ll get the power washer,” he says
swinging his legs from under the blanket.
“Or call Ben,” she says, still undecided about
the right course of action, but hating to watch her husband start his day
washing away duck poop.
He slows for a moment, then moves
on, shaking his head. He pulls a pair of raggedy sweat pants over his shorts
and stumbles off to the garage in search of the mighty power washer.
“Maybe they’ll go home tonight,” he mutters.
“Maybe we should get a snake,” she
counters, following close behind him. “I hear snakes are their natural predators.”
“Maybe a B.B. gun. Or fire crackers,”
he says.
"They’re illegal,” she groans.
“So is pooping in your neighbor’s
yard.”
“On the other hand, there’s always
duck soup,” a wide grin across her lips. “You kill ‘em, I’ll cook ‘em.”
“Yeah, but I hate duck,” he reminds
her.
“Not as much as I hate duck poop.” She
fans the air beneath her nose.
“Well, maybe about as much as I hate cleaning
up duck poop.” He is fully awake now.
“Too bad it’s a one-man job,” she
teases. He rolls his eyes.
She
pulls the collar of her pajamas closer around her neck and heads back to the
bedroom. “Call me when it’s over.”
II
But now it is morning.
She swings out of bed. With a deft
toss of her arm she sweeps aside the curtains from the window, tilts the blinds
and gazes out at the backyard. A light, misty haze dampens the morning air. A
few droplets of water shimmer from the leaves of the bright red Knockout Rose
near the deck. The whole yard looks pristine and she can almost savor the fresh
aroma of the crisp, washed air from where she stands.
Deep into the backyard she sees that
rain water has settled on the cover of the above-ground swimming pool. The
water appears to be shimmering although there is nothing to suggest a morning
breeze.
Nothing
to suggest a morning breeze! No gently swaying grasses, no
tinkling of garden chimes. Yet, concentric circles of water lap lazily toward
the edge of the pool’s plastic lining.
Could it be...? Yes it is. The
Mallards are back!
The Mallards have invaded her pool.
Well, not the pool, she consoles herself, but the puddle left from the
overnight rain shower. Never mind that it is early spring and still too cold to
open the pool. She has no desire to share the swimming pool with wayward
wildlife, certainly not with the Mallard family. She shouts at her husband who
is savoring the remnants of slumber.
“Power washer?” he mutters.
“Shotgun,” she grimaces through
clenched teeth. “I’ve had it with those ducks.”
“I’ll chat with Ben later,” her
husband promises and snuggles back under the covers.
III
SATURDAY MORNING. A mighty squawking
outside the bedroom window catapults her into awareness. Fuming, she elbows her
husband awake, grabs her robe and stomps towards the back door. He follows
close behind. She sees a man — Ben, it turns out — huddled by the rose bushes.
He is tossing squawking ducks into a makeshift wire-mesh crate. They both smile
at him, with outward commiseration, but secret pleasure.
“I’m in hot water with the other
neighbors,” Ben explains. “You folks are the only ones who haven’t complained
about the mess the ducks make. I’m taking them to my brother’s farm in
Pennsylvania.”
“That’s a shame,” she says, crossing
her fingers behind her back. “We so enjoyed watching them grow up.” Ben’s
sheepish glance says he doesn’t believe her, but appreciates her effort at
tactfulness. He leaves with his charges. It is finally peaceful.
IV
THEY ARE enjoying a late breakfast
on the deck. They savor the untainted freshness of the morning air. They linger
over coffee. Reconnect. Bond.
The doorbell rings. Excusing
herself, she drifts toward the door. The grandkids have come for their weekly
visit.
“We brought donuts,” the boy
announces, pushing the door open.
“And our new pets.” The girl follows on his heels, shoving a shoebox toward her. “We named them ‘Mac and Cheese.’”
“Ooh, kittens,” she smiles, reaching
into the box to stroke two tiny bundles of fuzzy down.
“No, Grammie,” the girl
corrects her. “Not kitties. Duckies.”
END
Copyright Maxine Thomas – 2016 ©
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