A Fowl Day

An animal's eyes have the power to speak a great language. 

Martin Buber

During the Great Depression, my mom's mother had a yellow mark on the sidewalk in front of her house. Tramps, as they were called then, placed the mark. It meant that this house was a good place to get a meal.

My mom shared her memories of coming down the stairs to find men gathered on her back stoop and her mother handing them homemade bread filled with leftover meats and cheeses smothered in gravy. If the men performed any tasks for her like mowing the lawn, shoveling the snow off the walk, or cleaning the chicken coop, she would make them a To Go bag.

It wasn't that my mother's parents had a great deal of money or much to share. My grandfather was a Swedish Covenant minister living in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan on a paltry salary while raising five kids. Often her dad would sit on the back steps with the men, curious about where God was in their travels. "Price of enduring a free meal," her mom would joke.

This morning while I sat on my porch writing my daily morning pages, I wondered if my house didn't have some kind of yellow mark on it. I had a gaggle, a paddle, and a few lone feathered friends all talking to me like this was the place to garner a Thanksgiving feast. Today.

Granted, I do spend a great deal of time with these lake creatures and welcome them into my world. I have my regulars. You many recall my barn swallow babies from a couple months ago.

 Two batches this summer allotted nine new in the flight. Several still come at night to sleep in their childhood nest in the rafters of the dock.

Paddles of visiting ducks often pass through or stay for a few days.

The neighborhood pelican, who missed the pod's migration back to Yellowstone last April, lives in the cove behind us.

We have a cover of coots.

The lone Osprey

Often large groups fly by on their travels.

And then we have the ever present Buddies, so named by my niece, Miranda, from Sheboygan. 

Today, morning in the hood seemed to be a "Let's go see Julie day."

 The resident Great Blue Heron was hanging out two doors down.

The neighborhood host of sparrows were holding a convention in the trees.
(I did not get that photo.)

The Buddies swam over to see if I was up.

And a gaggle of geese swam in. First one of them came up into the yard

 and then another one. 

My duck friends set up a line of defense. Sort of.  I think they were whispering, "Julie? Julie?"

These guys waited in the water to see if it was worth getting out.

As my followers maneuvered around the property, the Buddies worked their way down the dock to guard the entrance to the food shed.

Where a group of visiting ducks give The Buddies not a moment's hesitation to chase them off their feeding grounds, geese are a different beast and I'm certain they would have quickly ceded their position.

I remained in my chair and my Cardinal friend kept looking at me while he ate. I could hear him saying, "Well, are you going down to feed them or not?"

Where normally I would have done that, today I hadn't finished my coffee and still wore my pajamas. Not that the fowl would care what I wore. Though it doesn't bother me to sit on my porch in pajamas, probably would be my luck to have a few boatloads of fishermen come by while I'm strutting down the dock clad in my exotic sleepwear. Every fisherman's dream, I'm sure.  A 59-year-old woman in her nightie, less the hair curlers and cigarette hanging out her mouth, coming their way. 

Besides, I was low on cat food.

The head goose on the dock let out an exasperated squawk of impatience and flew off. The remainder of his gaggle paddled down the shoreline.

 With their exit, the Buddies collapsed on the dock, exhausted from the entire event.  Proud they had held off the invaders..

...as the heron continued his search. For some reason, he is not crazy about the cat food I serve. He prefers to do his own fishing. 

And the host of sparrows continued their quarreling in the trees. 

I understand my day of fowl watching is completely trivial when taken in consort with a much more giving grandmother. I'm grateful for those stories I carry from my mom and I'm certain if called to true duty, I could be generous.

But I'm starting to worry about myself. Could be time to resurface from my summer hibernation before I start eating cat food and walking like a duck while clad in my nightie searching the water for fish so I can cook breakfast. Scaring myself.