I liked feeding ducks. As a kid it was my most favorite outing—toting too old sandwich bread to the pond and pinching off pieces to feed the waterfowl. They were mostly mallards, I think, brilliant, green-necked males and the subtler but intricately patterned brunette females, still with that one spot of dazzling blue on the lower wing. There are all sorts of posted warnings now, that offering them bread makes the birds too dependent on human interaction, compromises migration instincts, and disrupts necessary flight patterns. For the greater good, you shouldn’t feed the ducks.
“...gas was less than a dollar,”
or
“...one always wore a belt with pants,”
or even
“...I walked to school, uphill both ways,”
imagine my dismay that at the age of twenty-seven I have become the sort of old-timer who says, “In my day, we fed ducks.” Except I’m too young to throw up my hands in absolved dismay of social obligation; the ducks and I have too much time left. I’ve learned to heed the signs.
I can’t be certain, but I imagine it was an extrapolation of childhood memories that lead me to my next avian endeavor. By senior year of college I had an off-campus apartment: two bedrooms, fifth floor, balcony overlooking the main drag. With quaint visions of colorful flocks alighting at my kitchen window, I started tossing bread onto the terrace—heels of the whole-wheat loaves I carried home in excess each afternoon following a too early bakery shift. And then I waited for my eco-urban bird feeder to lure in the exotic droves.
Expecting an exaltation of larks, imagine my surprise when five hundred pigeons arrived, set up permanent residence on the fire escape, and (no polite way to say it, really) crapped everywhere. The invasion was so immediate and dense that it prompted an abrupt visit from the building manager by the next morning. “Sooooo,” he began, “have you noticed the bird problem on the balcony?” I shrugged. “Any idea how it happened?” he continued. “Um,” I suggested, “global warming?”
Of course the truth was that it was my fault. That I’d intentionally thrown bread onto the balcony in a shortsighted attempt at bird bevy turned public biohazard. And I’d feel worse about it now, but I’m fairly certain I evened out any karmic debt by scraping mounds of bird feces into trash bags for the duration of my lease. Oh, and I named most of the pigeons too. Not with cutesy, feathery titles but real, adult names that I imagined matched their very serious and bustling schedules. Susan, Fredrick, Steven, Jonathon, Lorelei…the list goes on. It’s how I made the best out of the situation at hand.
Because I often pride myself on sound decision-making and risk evaluation, it makes me smile now to think that I was once naïve enough to expect birds of paradise when pigeons were the more obvious reality. I’m fairly certain it’s the sort of memory enduring optimism depends upon.
Weary of grandparents, and even parents alike, who begin stories with stale refrains of back in my time…
“...gas was less than a dollar,”
or
“...one always wore a belt with pants,”
or even
“...I walked to school, uphill both ways,”
imagine my dismay that at the age of twenty-seven I have become the sort of old-timer who says, “In my day, we fed ducks.” Except I’m too young to throw up my hands in absolved dismay of social obligation; the ducks and I have too much time left. I’ve learned to heed the signs.
I can’t be certain, but I imagine it was an extrapolation of childhood memories that lead me to my next avian endeavor. By senior year of college I had an off-campus apartment: two bedrooms, fifth floor, balcony overlooking the main drag. With quaint visions of colorful flocks alighting at my kitchen window, I started tossing bread onto the terrace—heels of the whole-wheat loaves I carried home in excess each afternoon following a too early bakery shift. And then I waited for my eco-urban bird feeder to lure in the exotic droves.
Expecting an exaltation of larks, imagine my surprise when five hundred pigeons arrived, set up permanent residence on the fire escape, and (no polite way to say it, really) crapped everywhere. The invasion was so immediate and dense that it prompted an abrupt visit from the building manager by the next morning. “Sooooo,” he began, “have you noticed the bird problem on the balcony?” I shrugged. “Any idea how it happened?” he continued. “Um,” I suggested, “global warming?”
Of course the truth was that it was my fault. That I’d intentionally thrown bread onto the balcony in a shortsighted attempt at bird bevy turned public biohazard. And I’d feel worse about it now, but I’m fairly certain I evened out any karmic debt by scraping mounds of bird feces into trash bags for the duration of my lease. Oh, and I named most of the pigeons too. Not with cutesy, feathery titles but real, adult names that I imagined matched their very serious and bustling schedules. Susan, Fredrick, Steven, Jonathon, Lorelei…the list goes on. It’s how I made the best out of the situation at hand.
Because I often pride myself on sound decision-making and risk evaluation, it makes me smile now to think that I was once naïve enough to expect birds of paradise when pigeons were the more obvious reality. I’m fairly certain it’s the sort of memory enduring optimism depends upon.
:) same happens when I'm feeding the local squirrels!
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