Ducks' First Snow

   The first blanket of snow was laid lightly and quietly upon the town in the middle of the night.  We woke to a white Thanksgiving morning.  A squirrel nibbled on a maple seed, and sparrows darted from bushes to full feeders.  The ducks exited their coop slowly - unsure of their new whitened world.  After a few taste tests of the fluffy white stuff covering the once green ground, they approved, and proceeded to explore their frozen yard. 

Snowy bill. 

Ducks' first snow. 

Snacking on old pumpkins. 

Snacking on pumpkins. 

Wishing the pumpkin wasn't frozen solid. 

Cayuga duck checking out the snow. 

Bird feeder spills are a great treat. 

Foraging in the snow, and eating it, too. 

Imagination From the Old-Fashioned Modern Dame

   I often imagine that I'm working on my pottery from a small, old two story country farmhouse with a stand of pines and oaks nearby.  The property wrapped by grassy, prairie fields.  A few small sheds and barns dapple the acreage and some twisted apple trees hang heavy with ripe apples.  Sometimes there's a small pond, possibly a little hill with a creek running by it.  There's a vast veggie and herb garden.  An apiary or two buzz busily by the garden.  A dozen or so ducks waddle amongst a gang of chickens, scavenging for bugs and greens.  A goat bleats nearby, and a draft horse's tail swishes away some flies while he grazes on pasture.  It reminds me of something Andrew Wyeth would paint.  It's something like slow living, purposeful living.

   But we are still in the city.  There is no Andrew Wyeth capturing a solitary moment of a woman gathering eggs and kneading bread.  I have no pottery shed set up yet.  Instead, there is the chaos of tangled cable wires and weedy trees breaking neighborhood privacy fences.  Sirens sound, dog howls along like he's one of the fire engines screaming by.  Grown-ups scream at each other, and neighbor kids curse and cry.  Working hours fly by.  We're in an old home.  Old windows, old doors, old floors, old wiring, so much old.  100 years old some of these items that shelter us.  We have old trees, new trees, new garage, old home - modern updates clashing with the old charm of our tiny property.

   I jam, I can, I preserve what harvest I can get out of a tiny urban garden.  Raspberries for preserves.  Tomatoes for salsas and soups.  Beans to freeze for the winter greens.  Apples to sauce from one of our two tiny trees.  Basil to make pesto.  Garlic to store and flavor our many dishes.  I don't know many people my age that didn't find canning a fading trending fad - for me it's our way of life.  And I've got ducks - not chickens.  But ducks.  And not just any ducks, but ducks that are rare - watched carefully by the Livestock Conservancy.  Their like heirloom tomatoes - unique, rare, special - but ducks. 

  I find I'm a modern girl with a wicked appetite for an old-fashioned life.  Slow things down.  Give us more time.  Give me days to dig in the dirt in Spring to plant the potatoes.  Give me days to make my from scratch breads.  Give me hours to sew up clothes and toys for little children.  Let me can until I have no more food to preserve and no more jars to fill.  And let the ducks quack in an urban yard where ducks may have never been before.  Use their eggs to bake, to feed the family - maybe share a few with a friend.  Create a little space - a little glimpse of that imaginary country farm - before the passing numbered days make waste of life's wants.

  Imagining, or tuning out the garbage that this city life can bring, is a powerful remedy to find the beauty in what's around.  As I sat sewing up some dolls, I peered out our frustratingly old, cracked, crumbling basement window to find four curious ducks watching me.  Instead of finding it ugly with the decay, I saw something more serene, more nostalgic.  Through that 100 year old window, with the marsh hay pressed against the screen, the old wood, the old bricks - it almost felt like an Andrew Wyeth moment.  I felt as though I was in a farmhouse, taking life slow.  The ducks framed in by the old window wood, with an aging woman's hope for eggs to drop in her cakes, scramble for breakfast.  They could have been a painting.  The imagination made it surreal.  The imagination made way for appreciation. 

Andrew Wyeth would have made a better painting.   

Appreciating an old, old window through the lens of a modern, old-fashioned dame.