Yesterday's Eggs
Yesterday Eggs
Yesterday eggs. Today, a flotilla of peeps paddling high speed at mom’s downy waterline. We watched from the Potter Marsh Refuge bridge as the mother duck and her entourage passed below, peeping and pecking at creek bank delicacies. I thought, surely she’s aware that in twenty feet this docile stream turns turbulent siphon, as compressed waters flush through culverts beneath the Seward Highway and out into Cook Inlet. With growing alarm we watched the little family move closer, and closer until, swish, one little duck is sucked into the swirling mouth, paddling and peeping in fright.
V screamed, hopped the bridge rail, dropped five feet to the ground, ran to the culvert, draped her body over the jagged opening and watched in horror as the little duckling was swept from her grasp. She leaped to her feet, ran up the embankment, across the Seward Highway, down the culvert outflow and disappeared in the mud and mosquito laden wetlands. As V slogged through the swamp in search of the duckling, predators above and below were already gathering for Peep D’Cuisine.
A wildlife photographer standing nearby dropped his camera in wide-eyed astonishment. I glanced over and said, Married Snow White. Guess I better go find her. So I climbed the rail, groaned my way up the embankment, crossed the busy highway, crawled up another embankment and stood on the railroad tracks scanning the marsh for any sign of my V. It took a few moments, but finally, there she was, waist deep in a trench swishing grass and thrashing reeds with Kung Fu precision looking for a duck…a black and yellow duck the size of a golf ball; a golf ball size duck that swept through a fifty yard culvert at the speed of light; a golf ball size duck lost somewhere on the coastal tidal flats.
Within minutes, all I could I could see of V were flailing, mosquito swatting arms and periodic shots of muddy butt (which, come to think of it, sounds a lot like an Alaska beer). So I stood there, shook my head, got a little misty and thought, Well, I guess that’s why I love her.
Now V has a very special connection with the spiritual side of life. God likes her a lot. Really. He makes downtown parking spaces appear where none exist, offers insider info about nature that result in amazing art expressions and introduced her to me, in a shower. So after another shot of muddy butt, I lift my arms, look to the sky and say, “You know God, you two really get a kick out of each other. Wouldn’t it be fun to help her find that little duck?” It occurred to me that I might look a bit odd standing on the tracks reaching for the sky, so I lowered my arms, looked down, and there she was, dancing her way up the embankment with a little black and yellow dot sticking out of her gently cupped hands.
Well, I kind of wish this were the end of the story. Sorry. I was all up for adoption, but V thought it best to reunite the little feather ball with the mother ducker whose negligence caused the crisis in the first place. So we walked up and down the boardwalk searching for the little duck’s family, oblivious to the lynch mob mumble directed at the lady with the baby duck in her hand.
After a bit, another photographer cornered me, and after hearing the story said, Let it go! It smells like your wife now, so it’s dead anyway. Really!? When I was seven, I hid in a little cardboard fort and smoked a cigarette and my mom took me back. Besides, I thought, how does he know how my wife smells? Then a heavy set woman with eyes of steal offered us a Circle Of Life analogy that would have raised the hair on Simba’s back. And yet another was incensed that anyone from Alaska could be stupid enough to pick up an abandoned creature under any circumstances. And then came the Law.
It appears that some mob agitators cornered the Volunteer Visitor Refuge Sheriff demanding justice. So we were trapped: Marshall Dillon in front, lynch mob behind, photographers waiting to record our flight in any direction. The Sheriff walked up to V and said, Howdy (no kidding), whatcha got in yer hand? V showed him the little duck nestled in her hand and he said, Ya know I cain’t let ya leave the refuge with that little critter. Ya gotta let ‘er go. Sorry. It’s the rules.
We could tell he was a kind spirited man, and he agreed the odds weren’t too good for the little duckling, but rules er rules. Then he shook his head and comforted V with an experience he had the previous day watching three goslings swept through that very same culvert. V gave him the REALLY!? look, gave up the fight, and I watched the crowd part as she walked back to the bridge, climbed the rail and gently placed the baby duck back in the stream. Gulls circled above as we watched the tiny, peeping little black and yellow ball paddle upstream and disappear, alone, looking for mom. On our way home I looked at V and asked, Okay, the sheriff’s not around. Did you kiss her? V looked sheepish and replied, Well, maybe once…on the head.
The next morning we decided to walk the boardwalks for any sign of the mom and ducklings. As we rounded the corner heading back to the stream geese were grazing mudflat succulents. Then off in the distance, we spotted a duck. V asked a guy with a huge telephoto lens if she could take a look. He aimed, V leaned in, and there she was: the mother of eight, who spent the night before with only seven, surrounded by eight black and yellow balls fluffing, slurping, peeping and pecking their hearts’ delight. Like I said, V’s got the touch. And I still kiss those lips, no matter where they’ve been.
Written by Frank Prewitt. Frank is V's husband who, as she says, “edits my mind.”
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