While washing dishes and humming a favorite tune, I heard a familiar, but muted, quack. From the kitchen window I saw Juliet Mallard strut confidently into the Fairy Garden, followed by five fluffy ducklings in a neat line behind her pert tail. (Visitors had inadvertently left the first gate open.) Padding over the lush Irish moss, she quack-commented on its softness, and then waddled to the Fairy Fountain. The little ones bumped to a stop and crowded around the edge of the 4-foot-wide pool, thrilled by the water tumbling from the big fairy statue. She quacked permission-to-swim, and the infants excitedly plopped into the water, peeping and paddling around the small circle while Mama watched indulgently from the sidelines. After a bit she assumed a more comfortable position and preened her feathers, listening to their delighted cheeps with amusement. Clearly, she'd planned this outing.
Wait a minute ... where was Romeo? He was usually close. I ran quickly to the living room window. Aha! He'd plopped down on the sun-warmed front lawn, tucked bill into feathered back, and fallen asleep. I rushed back to the kitchen window; the kids were splashing about happily, reminding me of excited children discovering Disney World's watery pleasures. High-pitched mini-quacks told me they'd "ducked" under the gentle waterfall. Soft breezes would occasionally ruffle drooping ferns, which tickled tiny heads. Initially alarmed, they'd heard no "take cover" signs from Mama, so their tiny bodies relaxed into the experience.
It was fascinating that she knew not to join them. It would have been too crowded. No, let the kids have their fun; it was quite safe in that snug, sheltered corner of the garden.
Eventually though, there were signs of restlessness; Juliet was getting bored. Curious, I decided to go out there, just to see what might happen.
I passed the sleeping Romeo; useless as a guard, he never noticed. But as soon as I entered the Fairy Garden and approached, Madame silently faced me; opening her beak wide she stood tall and spread her wings, shielding her children, reminding me to keep my distance.
Testing, I took a step toward her. One firm quack and the kids vacated the water instantly. She efficiently herded them under the giant, plumed Aruncus right next to the fountain, quacked me another stay-away command, then joined them underneath its ground-skimming branches. She knew me, and wasn't alarmed, but the rules were clear: I was not to approach, period.
If I hadn't known better I wouldn't have guessed that six souls were five feet away. They had vanished. Not a peep came from the babies. No movement. I waited. Nothing. Romeo, her champion, snored on out front, oblivious.
Impressed, I stepped back, opened the big gate wider so her brood and she could leave, and retreated to the house. Back at the kitchen window I saw her quack "all's clear;" everyone tumbled out -- then, shock, horror! Mama pooped copiously on the delicate, blossoming Irish moss, then once more. That did it; the park was closed! I began to dog-pant and meow loudly from the window. Wary, she looked around, then stared right up at me. Oops! Nevertheless, I persisted, determined to eliminate the eliminator. (Moss cleanup is frustratingly difficult.)
Though she certainly knew who was behind these pathetic imitations, Mama had had enough. A quick quack assembled the ducklings; they paraded out, up the pine-needled path, and onto the front lawn. Collecting Romeo she waddled confidently to the curb, crossed over, and led everyone tidily to the river.
Sighing, I began mop-up operations.
Mushy, mossy mallard messes make me mutter ...
Sunnybank Gardens, 325 Sixth St., Traverse City, welcomes visitors from around 9 a.m. most days, until evening. Hours vary. Please check the sign out front for details. Groups are welcome; please contact Dee at blairdee@gmail.com, or call 929-4351 to schedule tours.
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