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Where and when Eric and I found the tattered remains of a broken Mallard’s nest and the exact details leading up to its grisly discovery remains today forever lost. As we were young boys at the time of the sad discovery, and on a great adventure, with all life’s details taken for granted. The following non-fiction account begins at a marauded and abandoned ducks nest, somewhere on Toronto Island over the summer of 1958. In order to fill the gaps, large amounts of artistic license was taken to recreate the events that took place. he young Mallard hen had chosen her nest site well, with her clutch of twelve eggs nestled deep in the wind blown reeds. Deep in a quiet backwater of Lake Ontario, on a sandbar known as the Toronto Islands. As her parents and their parents had done for generations before her. However, even the best sites sometimes fail, as luck favored the predators approach. She would bravely brood over her fragile treasure to the last second, neck outstretched, heart pounding not batting an eye. Relying on her natural camouflage, before the basic need of her own survival moved her into explosive flight.
“In the book of life, the answers aren't in the back.”
Charlie Brown
Sucking whirlpools rolled off the tips of Eric’s feathered oars, leaving parallel strings of spinning galaxies on the waters surface. Looking behind me, I watched as they slowly dissolved into the black lagoon. To the rhythm of the oars, warm water on the punts floor, sloshed back and forth over our tanned feet.
Escaping gossamer threads floated by over helmless feather sailboats, that had become stranded in the doldrums. It was deep summer and school was but a far off memory.
The shadowy green forest wall, reflecting in the dark mirrored waters gave a boy the impression of a wild, still, endlessly flowing northern river. Along the lagoons shore Redwing Blackbirds trilled their territorial threats to late arrivals. The hypnotic sent of wild mint and sweet sledges, filled the air.
With hard strokes on the right oar we turned up into a quiet backwater, that had telegraphed its presents with trillions of brilliant sun flashes. The entrance where everything seemed asleep lay barely visible, and rarely visited because of the overgrowth that partly blocked the channel mouth.
Narrowing our horizons, we were lured in by the sulky waters. With its haunted world of duckweed, water lilies, cool shadows and soft mosey banks. Here currents crawled and spirits lurked and the lagoon flowed to its own peculiar rhythms. Much different than the open canals, subject to the whims of breezy cat’s paws and sunlight. This was a place bewitched, where painted turtles went to nap undisturbed in the sunny spots. And where owls hid the day away from gangs of roving blackbirds.
Somewhere back in the willows a Flicker called, announcing our arrival to the whole woodland.
Shafts of sunlight filtered down through the silent forest canopy, that hung over us from both banks, exposing the explosive mud swirls of fleeing Carp. Spooked from their slumber in the weeds by the punts looming bow, and the shadow of a boy with a blunt spear.
Somewhere ahead in a narrow moribund fen just outside our direct consciousness, came the alarmed call, of a very distressed Mallard hen. Breaking the silence with wings whistling she swung around low, again and again, over the scene of some mysterious crime. By making frantic passes a few feet above our heads, was her way of reporting a great injustice.
It’s pain and excessive quacking was lost on two carefree Island boys, unencumbered with responsibilities and the seriousness of death. Rapped in natures bosom, we were too young to comprehend the depth of the young mallards suffering.
We landed and pulled the small boat up onto an exposed bit of sandy beach, which was covered in web footprints, left by preening waterfowl.
With the ducks odd antics quickly fleeing our thoughts, we held to our lazy wanderings, which would eventually take us to a meadow full of ripening Strawberries.
With painted Indians lurking behind every bush and visions of catching wild Rabbits filling our heads we began to explore the shallows along the muddy shoreline. Enjoying the submerged rotting vegetation oozing between our toes.
We were forced to go inland briefly, by snags and overhang jutting out from the shore. As we picked our way around for easer travel, we were forced to follow any slight openings in the thick reeds. With nature now providing the directions, our aimless wanderings brought us upon a well hidden, but broken nest.
The sad story unfolded before us, as we dumbly stared at the destruction. Some animal, perhaps a coon or a loose Island dog, had flushed the duck and ripped her nest to pieces? It barely held to its soft original downy shape. Broken eggs and shells with clinging feathers were strung everywhere, even some distance from the nest. Miraculously in the midst of chaos hidden in tuffs of dry grass, sat two cold unmolested greenish white eggs. Instinctively we each grabbed one, like Eve picking the apple and eagerly discovered their pale moon shapes in our hands. With the faith and innocence of a child we had absolutely no doubt in our minds, as to the eggs chances for survival. Thus we adopted, eggs nestled softly in our armpits, tenderly, as we entered our first journey into motherhood.
Mother was used to finding odd and strange things in my pockets. Such as suffocating Toads, Acorn caps, Pinecones and bugs. So my dirty excited appearance with a cold forlorn looking duck egg, that had been housed in my armpit, was nothing out of the ordinary. I can only imagine her thoughts, about the little ducks chances of hatching? They must have looked mighty slim to her at the time? Never the less, in her sweet way she humored me and prepared a makeshift nest for the egg. From some of her clean linen and towels, (an extravagance on her part) she fashioned her version of a nest along with my important touches. She sat the nest and egg on top of our hot water tank, in the linen closet. With the deep warmth of the tank radiating below the makeshift nest and a thick hollow donut of towels to prevent the egg from rolling, we had a pretty fair representation of a wild ducks nest. With the added warmth from a hot water bottle accompany it during the night, we had done everything possible to insure the ducklings survival?
In the Lye household, pretty much the same events were taking place, and we two boys became protective and brooding as any mother hen.
Much to everyone’s surprise, especially my Mother, events started happening quickly in the linen closet. In what seemed like a month to us but was only a little over a week, both eggs almost simultaneously began showing signs of life. As in the wild, the hen will not start to incubate the eggs until all had been laid. To insure survival, so that all the hatchlings arrive at roughly the same time. We had carefully turned each egg every day as a mother duck would often do, and our efforts were beginning to pay off.
One night a tiny hole appeared on the egg and then nothing, perhaps it was resting? Later in the morning a small split appeared with minute bits of shell breaking off. The long struggle for life amazed me as I watched excitedly for almost an hour, as a little black beak and slimy yellow duckling slowly fought to free itself. I was allowed to watch but strongly forbidden not to interfere, even though I desperately wanted to pick it up and break away the encumbering shell.
What I did not know at the time was that all babies imprint on the first thing they see, especially baby ducks. And will flee from anything else. I remember those moist and small warm black eyes, peering out from a black stripe across its fluffy yellow face. Constantly watching me as it continued to escape from its cocoon. It’s tiny calls to it’s new mother, little peeping sounds, is what gave Eric the idea to name his ducking Peeper.
There was much joy in our family and the small creature held the complete attention of the whole household. The ducking would only follow me, and not my siblings, much to my selfish delight. We spent many wonderful hours bonding and hanging out together. Thankfully all baby ducks, are able to feed themselves, from birth and he was easy to rear. In the backyard, it took readily to a small pool my father had devised for him to swim in.
However, tragedy lingered patiently for this ducks family. All but one of the twelve or so eggs that were originally laid lived to fly south. For many years after, Peeper a female, came back to Eric’s front yard for brief visits. Easily recognizable by a quirky tilt to her tail feathers and her tame demeanor. Then one spring she failed to return, perhaps lost to the Hunters bag or she was simply assimilated back into the wilds. I like to think she lived a long productive life and nested near by, perhaps near the same fen as her mother? The ancestors of those ducks in the lagoons today.
The ducklings would follow us everywhere, even old Bruff, Eric’s dog tolerated Peeper. One would often see Eric walking along with his strange brood. First Bruff following Eric, then Peeper in close pursuit, scolding, and desperately trying to keep up.
A few days after the hatching, nature had her way. My ducking was kept in a box beside my bed. It wouldn’t stop jumping up the sides, trying to get out, or so I thought, to be with me. Against my parents orders, I lifted the yellow downy puff ball out to comfort him. I loved him tickling my face and hair with his little beak, as it explored it’s monster mommy’s face.
I awoke the following morning to my horror, to find that I had some how smothered him in my sleep.
Summer turned to fall and the despair of killing my little pet began to fade. Helping me to heal my father reminded me that because they are so vulnerable, mother nature provided ducks with large clutches. Anywhere from eight to fourteen eggs, so that some will survive into adulthood. I began to see that I was just a part of this mysterious process, and that things happen for
A yellow Dacron sail was added to my warmly varnished pram. So that my parents could keep track of my tiny bouncing sail, far out in the sun and chop. New adventures awaited me in my natural Island paradise, and I could now explore the furthest reaches of the harbor. I would sail and tack in the lee under the towering sterns of rusting Lake Freighters, dispensing their Sugar and Grains. Not until the Old Squaws arrived from the North on the crest of winter, with their haunting lonely calls, was my summer truly over.
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