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.
And they poop on her walkway. Now
what does she do?
