Sabbath Wanderings

For the record, the down quilt was in place from last week, and Mom and Dad were still around. But when I came up on the nest, they decided to go over to the other side of the pond and sit and watch. In fact, they stayed there for awhile quite a distance away. So I did too, spittin' distance from the nest. 

Nothing moved. Not in the nest, not on the other shore, and not me. I can wait, I thought. They'll do a little familiarity thing again, like last Sunday. When finally the two of them took to the water, they paddled on by as if there were no nest at all, a goodly distance out in the pond too. It seemed almost as if they weren't bothered at all. They didn't hover, didn't dawdle, didn't restrain themselves one bit, just made their way up on shore a hundred yards in the other direction--I could barely see them, a mile away.

It was perfectly disappointing. But I told myself I could wait because I fully expected them to circle back before coming closer and closer until, like last week's Sabbath visit, they'd hike up on shore right there beside me to tend the troops. 

They didn't. They stayed afar, almost as if I could have a look beneath the pile of goose down for myself, inviting me almost. I didn't. Somewhere within my psyche is the promise that if you even look ai a bird's  nest, the mother will not return--it's a promise.

So I left, walked all the way around the pond (which is still quite a feat for a half-crippled me), and sat down on a bench. Last week, I counted six expectant families who have taken up residence on Alton's South Pond, one of them, the closest to the parking lot, already caring for little fluff balls. Yesterday, the whole bunch were gone--greener pastures, I'm thinking, since the top of the island, where they and another couple haven taken up residence, looked half-bald, denuded.

Another pair weren't showing themselves, but all else seemed in order. 

It was not cold out, but not warm either yesterday afternoon, but sitting there on a bench at the water's edge was a ball. People came--all of them Ukrainian--and I chatted with both crews. 

It was a fine Sabbath day excursion, but I'll admit it--I was disappointed. Not only was there no family life whatsoever at the big rock nest, the only show in town last week had apparently pulled up stakes.

Sad. Then suddenly and totally unannounced and unexpected, the Mom and Dad from the long grass appeared out of nowhere and took to the water--Mom, Dad, both peacock-like in their showy pride, and three yellow puff balls merrily paddling along right there at mom's side.

They were a ways away, but I reached out with my lens and took this shot and one other before they disappeared somewhere behind the island. I was shaking, thrilled at the obvious new littl'uns--I'm tempted to say cute as toys. But they're not. Rubber Duckies are meant to look like these. It's not a great shot, and I do so wish it was.

I'm embarrassed to say how thrilled I was to witness pre-K swimming lessons, but then, I suppose, I'd invested some time in watching the goings-on, and had been disappointed at the way on the other side of the pond where I'd anticipated some real action. This family came out of nowhere like an answer to prayer, right out of the long grass on the west side, and in perfect silence took to the water, showing no fear, parents or kids.

 I told the Ukrainian family about them, and they took off, hoping to spot the kids. Then I went up the hill, back to the truck, remembering how toddlers coming into the old folks home where Dad was spending his last years, remembering how powerlessly those little stinkers instantly lit the place up, even--and maybe especially--those residents with forms of dementia. Made their day. I'm embarrassed to say his old man jumped into the truck, just that silly-excited. 

And then I remembered this:

That's my granddaughter. The handsome tall guy beside her is her husband. What she has in her hand is a series of photos of a tiny little who that's somewhere marking time inside her. They're holding a pink onesie to say just about all that can or needs to be said. 

They're going to be parents, those kids, and we're going to be great-grandparents. Just thought I'd mention it, along with a flotilla of goslings on a nearly perfect Sabbath afternoon.

 Not  a bit cold really.