Salvaged Shipwreck  Beverly Koepplin

I am a salvaged shipwreck.

For years upon years, I sank, then drifted

sometimes heavily, floundering on the bottom, scraping my hull,

sometimes drifting with the wind running through the seas, at their mercy,

sometimes still and quiet in the murky waters, blindly waiting

until the currents lifted me and let me go.

Barnacles fed on me, sharp teeth nibbling at my rusty shell,

the creatures of the sea swam around and through me,

heavy green seaweeds beribboned my bow and floated around me

like tendrils of sea road showing me the way away

but still I waited until the currents lifted me and let me go.

Sometimes, not often, the few graces I could find lifted me up

so I would see light on the surface of the waters

thin and yellow and wavering and tantalizing.

But then I would sink yet again, wallowing in the troughs of despair,

Waiting for the currents to lift me and let me go.

One day the waters rolled magnificently below me

and with a mighty thundering roar heaved my tired and aching hull up and up

and gently set me on land, on a craggy ledge of rock that held me,

until I could find my legs, until I could see a clear path to walk,

and I waited no more for the currents to let me go.

I am a salvaged shipwreck.

                            ***

The Courtroom of a Fool - Robyn Makaruk

I’m the Royal Court Jester, a slave to humor

The Monarch's entertainer

Delivering riddles and rhymes with no substance

Offered in pantomime by this indentured clown.

A licensed Fool, clown to society. 

I am summoned to appear and perform,

to prance and dance and serve up antics and jokes

for the pleasure of the one who owns me.

Hidden truths as riddles is all that I speak

For payment returned in applause and false respect.

The smile tattooed on my face

Hides a heart that carries an empty bag

But when I twirl and whirl and dance to distraction

The endorphins rise up rendering moments of sanity. 

In these moments of joy 

This courthouse is my stage

And all the forbidden liaisons shared in whispers 

behind fluttering fans

By the audience of painted puppets

do not diminish the mastery of my performance, 

for I am the Monarch of the Moment

But when the day is over and I go to my cell

my antics lie dormant and I return to my lot

That of a slave to greed and sinister jocularity.

The face in the mirror stares at the stranger

Reminding me of my unique station in life.

                           ***

Out of the Ashes - Beverly Koepplin

I walk out of the courthouse, heart pounding,

traverse the bank of steps with suddenly shaky legs,

and collapse on the nearest bench, limp and nerveless.

It is over, this torture of a marriage, that time of my life,

those years - those decades actually - of miserable nothingness.

I should be glad, I should feel free, I should be dancing.

I sit still, trying to stop the world spinning so fast,

trying to think of how I should feel in this new time,

trying to recapture long-ago years of just being me, if I ever was.

In an effort to settle myself, I gaze around the courthouse lawn.

Off to the side, workers are clearing brush, heaping dry branches,

setting a small fire which soon billows up brilliant flames and rolling smoke.

In one quick flurry, a big dark bird hurls himself into the sky,

lifting up, so it seems, from the flames of the burning pile,

and clearing the clouds of smoke in a seamless high glide up and up and up.

It all happens so fast that even as the bird soars out of my sight

I wonder if it really happened at all, this phoenix appearing to me now,

when a part of me is dying while a new part of me is being born.

How can I die and live at the same time?  I do not know,

but I rise from the bench on suddenly strong legs,

and walk on solid ground toward  the horizons of my new life.

Like the phoenix, I will arise from the ashes and fly high.

My new feathers will glisten in the orange rays of the sun,

and I will know, as the phoenix does, that to be free is to live.

Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

                              ***

Fitting the Pieces Back Together -John Field

Old friends clean and neat            

And full of responsibilities 

Rust holes in my memories

Each time they ask me 

If I ever killed anybody in ‘Nam,

My tragedies average, they suppose.                                                                

Machine gun bullets cutting down legs, 

Zigzaging up bodies.            

I dream double, 

Fall asleep in San Francisco and wake up 

In Saigon crowded with the ghosts 

Of thieves and lovers—trees, buildings,

Pedestrians, even their shadows burning,

Pouring clouds of smoke in the sky.

That’s why I think about dying young

On summer afternoons when the sun 

Beats down on my skull 

Like a blackjack wound, 

Minefields studded with the stumps

Of amputees instead of trees.

And am not surprised

When October’s blazing colors,

Always a godly sight or almost so,

Tell my hungry eyes no 

Before they ask--followed by 

November nights 

Without an address or an alibi

Lost in a maze of one-way alleys 

No map will ever master,

Knowing I’ll spend the rest of my life 

Hiding behind chalk marks 

On locked doors

Unless I slide my health forms

In the right slot, take my Meds

And stop believing the bad-ass lies

Cocaine whispers in my nose.

Then remember the 58,022 names 

Engraved 

On the Vietnam Veterans Memorial

And try but not very hard

To get on with my life.

                 ***

Lounging Beverly Koepplin

I was lounging, unabashedly and without remorse,

even though I had writing to be done, 

plants hoarsely crying for water,

and a kitchen floor screaming dirty words at me.

And this is how it all started.

I laid down on the sofa to contemplate lounging,

soft pillow under my head, 

a bowl of ripe round glistening cherries at hand,

And a slight, temperate breeze caressing my bare skin.

I thought I should look up the meaning of the word “lounge”

so I would know exactly what to write about.

Grabbing my smartphone (also conveniently at hand), 

I accessed my Dictionary.

“Lounge” means to pass time, idly and indolently,

To rest or recline indolently, loll,

To go or move in a leisurely, indolent manner, saunter.

I decided I could lounge, it seemed doable,

and I also decided I liked the word indolent a lot.

It seemed to go hand in hand with lounging.

While I was trying to find the perfect position 

in which to lounge,

the house phone rang.  It was not conveniently at hand.

I got up grudgingly to find the handset, 

vowing to return to lounging ASAP.

Seconds after I abruptly terminated the call 

from an insurance salesperson,

I was back on the sofa, conjugating the verb “lounge” thusly –

I had been lounging, and I was currently lounging.

And when the doorbell rang, I muttered to myself 

“and I will be lounging again.”

After I got rid of the earnest young man 

who could sell me steaks at a good price

because he had been delivering them next door 

to my neighbor (ha!), I returned to the sofa.

Making sure the house phone was close and my door locked,

I laid down again, rearranged the pillow, 

and reached for a cherry.

Ah, I thought as I dangled the cherry above my mouth, 

I could grow to like lounging.

I decided to give lounging some more time 

to be sure I had the process right

I snuggled deeper into the soft pillow, 

turned my head to the breeze,

and let my mind drift hither, tither and yon, almost indolently.

At some point, the drifting found a home in sleep,

and I awoke to discover that, yes, I could indeed lounge

and that furthermore my writing was all done 

in my head and needed just to be put to paper.

As I got up, I thought to myself that I could definitely

Find room in my future for more indolent lounging.

After all, I seemed to excel at it.  Who knew?

A Courthouse of Fowls  Michael James

A cousin from England is staying with me for a few days.  Today I took him to the coast, straight to Bodega Headland, where we had difficulty holding open our car doors against the thrust of a 35 knot blast from the north-west. Hunkered down beneath the logs supported on concrete blocks to prevent cars from rolling over the cliff edge, two ravens eyed our approach as if measuring our auras for colors denoting our generosity. My cousin marked the particular insecurity of the lesser bird, how it seemed to defer to its companion as if to an older brother. I took out of my backpack a couple of good chips and walked gently up to the birds holding out my offering. As soon as they became uneasy, I flicked one under the log where it was immediately seized by the older animal, snapped in half, and the hard, jagged pieces swallowed one half at a time without a blink of the steady black eyes.

Cousin and I hiked up and over the headland, staying a little away from the cliff edge in case a gust of wind were to pick up my tottering steps and throw them over. It was hard sledding for this old bod and I was happy enough to sit on the ground and wait for his return, enjoying the silver sheen of the sun flickering on the waves as they rolled down from the north to crash onto the rocks below.

When we returned to the car I observed how pleasant it was to get in out of the wind; much as I love it, one tires of it when it is so strong and steady. I suggested we drive down off the headland to seek a more sheltered spot for lunch. The bay was much calmer than the top of Bodega Head, and we found a picnic table immediately. A few gulls standing or lying around the table notified us of their presence and great need as soon as we sat down by opening their beaks wide and screeching at us in falsetto mode.  My requests for quiet being soon observed,  I opened our lunch bag and laid out the victuals and drinks. A circle immediately formed around us as if we were guests in their courthouse whom they welcomed with much raucous cawing. 

I spoke to a few of the gulls near me urging them to shut their beaks if they wanted some scraps; two complied at once, a lovely mature bird with brilliant white plumage, trimmed in black, a white and yellow beak sporting an orange spot near its tip, and another bird dressed in the usual drab brown feathers and black beak of immaturity. I tossed scraps of my tuna fish sandwich to one of them at a time, apparently convincing them of my harmlessness, for they hopped up on the seat of the picnic table to retrieve scraps from the table top. And it wasn’t long before both of them became bold enough to get up on the table itself, from where they then had to ward off flock mates diving in for treats.

Feeding seagulls in the past had convinced me to be wary of those beaks of theirs, for the top part carries a pointed hook which can pierce the skin of a finger tip with ease, not intentionally, but just because the birds strike to catch their prey like a snake darting out of its coiled position. So I addressed my feathered new friend much as I have spoken to dogs looking for treats. I told the bird in a friendly, calm voice to take it easy, not to snatch, and that it would have seconds if it took the food gently. Then breaking off a little piece of my sandwich and holding it between thumb and forefinger, I stretched out my arm towards the animal and held it there.

The bird did a little foot shuffling, all the while looking at me with those passionless, unblinking eyes, black of pupil, yellow of iris, moving closer to my extended hand, withdrawing a moment, moving feet. Then all at once the gull committed itself and moved smoothly and gently to take the morsel from my fingers without even touching them with its beak. 

“Good job!” I told it, and broke off another piece, this time with some tuna fish on it. The same little dance occurred, though not as long, and a similar easy retrieval of the snack took place, leaving my fingers intact. I was elated! Junior moved in to pick up little pieces dropped from the catch. So I tried to coax him into a civilized feeding too. He wasn’t such a quick learner or quite as brave. I had to flick pieces to him though he was still on the table.

The feeding continued until my sandwich was consumed, though admittedly mostly by myself, the walking having given me a good appetite. But I still had chips and an apple, though I could not imagine a bird being able to consume chunks of that firm fruit. Both tried; however their bills had insufficient leverage to reduce the pieces to pulp so they could swallow them. The chips they broke into manageable morsels demonstrating the use of their beaks as tearing and pecking tools. And when the remaining chips were only in small pieces, the gulls bent their necks so that the sides of their beaks were flush with the table. There I noticed slight bulges on either side, perfect for scooping up crumbs.

Like raptors, the eyes of Jonathan Livingstone were almost in the front of his head, providing him over 200 degrees of vision and giving him that peculiar appearance of a hard stare. I was left wondering if it was this determined and hypnotic look that had separated me from my lunch.

As I sat there staring back at the bird, Jonathan Livingstone seemed to place a query in my mind.

“Besides their usefulness for binocular vision, why do you suppose we have two eyes”?

“I can’t imagine,” I answered perplexed.

“So that we can look at the finger pointing to the moon with one, and at the moon with the other.” With that he spread his wings, caught the wind, and sailed straight up into the sky which was too bright for me to follow him.

                                        ***

Labyrinth  Robyn Makaruk

I’ve named my brain Labyrinth.

It doesn’t contain a minotaur or other monster

And hasn’t needed a tune-up, yet

Although sometimes it feels like it.

But it is a real maze, 

With lots of pathways

And sensors blinking on and off

Toggles, if you will,

And neurons, firing with purpose

Reminding me to do this or that 

When and if I go astray.

Most of the time it keeps me out of harm’s way, 

But when I stray off the right path

It will set up a pounding hammer

That lets me know, ‘no, no, no!

You’ve made the wrong turn.  Go back!’ 

I like my brain 

And I’m going to take very good care of it.

Feed it three healthy meals a day

And make sure it gets enough sleep

Although its nighttime activities

Are different from mine.

It goes off on space travels

Careening around the Cosmos

Checking out all the Stardust  

Making sure there will be room for us 

To join all that went before, 

But only in due time.

                   ***

My Lookout Point  Beverly Koepplin

I climbed to my lookout point today.

I had decided yesterday evening that today was a good day to do that.

I arose earlier than usual this morning, ate well, dressed comfortably

and made sure I had a good bottle of wine laid aside for my return home.

Climbing to my lookout point is never easy

and as the years goes by, it is a harder task to undertake.

Nevertheless, I girded my loins and took the first step

on the path that would eventually culminate at my lookout point.

My climb started easily, and I felt an almost childish delight

at the adventure that was in front of me.

Peered around the corners, looked at the sky,

laughed as the clouds took on fanciful shapes of animals.

And then the path got harder as it slowly ascended,

and I found myself tripping over small unseen rocks,

and thin hard twigs buffeted my body as I struggled upwards.

A slight misty fog filled the air, but I did not waiver and kept true to my path.

The landscape, when I dared to look at it between small, slip-sliding steps,

was darkly gray and black and ashy white

and stick-like trees with charred bark stood sentinel

over what I did not want to imagine and really did not want to know.

At the next turn, the path smoothed, and I stopped to rest.

The fog had thinned, the landscape had turned green and the trees were leafing out.

I could hear water rushing and birds chirping somewhere in the distance,

and I gathered hope close to me as I started out again.

Ever nearing the top, the path wound upward

and the turns came closer together so that my eyes were constantly on the ground

lest I take a wrong step that would catapult me over the steep cliffs

that now lined the path in jagged walls of time-layered rocks.

I knew only that the landscapes varied as the path did

and in the short smooth stretches I caught glimpses

of sometimes the small patches of the barren lifeless lands

and sometimes the green smooth reaches of verdant meadows.

As I got close to the top of my lookout point,

the path widened and leveled out so that I could almost stroll.

One more turn, I told myself, just one more

and I will reach the point where I can look out – over my life.

For the journey to my lookout point is not a physical trek.

It is a path through time from the visions of my soul over the years of my life

to the reality of what I actually see with my eyes when I reach the top.

Today’s trip was, as it always is, arduous and long.

But I can say, quite confidently, that things are looking pretty damn good.

                                             ***

Lounging  Joan Brady

Mostly, I lean back on a bed of  nails called 

‘shoulds’...each one sharp, piercing...and when 

I acquiesce, I am led into further densities...

but tonight it is sunset, and I brush my aged cat, as 

she roles over on her back, belly-up, legs spread...purring.

She has been with me through many landscapes...

all more turbulent than this place we now find

wound around us...so hushed...filled with light...

and I am playing the old music...listened 

too in another century, long before I got her. 

It wears well...jazz, soft piano, blues...Hancock/Holiday...

and there is a momentary melding between those 

days...and the present...without in-between intrusions.

                                  ***

A Career  Dave Lewis

The choice of a career may have a variety of origins. In some cases it may be inherited along with a farm, a ranch, or a business. Some people’s choice may have been dictated by a parent’s prodding, and some people have a career epiphany during their youth that sticks with them. A great number of folks just ricochet through life like the random motion of the missile in the old fashioned pin-ball machines, responding to gravity with an occasional slap from an external force.

The later scenario was the case for Nefarious Ames, an unaccomplished citizen who was serving jury duty for his first time at the age of 25.  During jury selection he had to admit to the lawyers trying to impanel those favorable to their cause, that he had various occupations but no career.  Nefarious was selected, since  both the lawyer for the plaintiff and the defendant saw him as moldable clay. During that trial Nefarious got the slap of inspiration, just like  pinball missiles are directed by a flipper.  The flipper in this instance was a drama revealed by the trial.

The plaintiff was an insurance company attempting to recover payments and cancel continuing payments to a claimant who was purported to have injured himself while employed and then been deemed by medical experts to be irreversibly unable to work again. The plaintiff’s case was based upon motion pictures, covertly recorded by the insurance company’s investigator, showing the claimant doing all kinds of arduous tasks: roofing a house, chopping down a tree and splitting logs, changing a tire on a large truck, and loading and unloading 80 pound bags of rock salt for a water conditioner. The jury looked askance at the defendant that would enter slowly with a cane and a grimace and seat himself slowly with clenched teeth.

The trial ended quickly when the claimant’s defense interviewed an identical twin brother. When the brothers stood together it was obvious that they were easily confused since each had identical long beards and shoulder length hair besides being otherwise identical.  It was established also that they still practiced the childhood habit of identical dress started by a doting mother. The brother had been working around his own home when filmed.

Though that trial died a quick death it naturally created several more trials – like a classic boomerang. This was a eureka moment for Nefarious as he saw the huge impact of an alibi with a strong visual impact. Nefarious had done poorly in high school and one of the few things he retained was his interest in acting.  He had his five minutes of high school fame because of talent in several school plays. Now he saw a manner of cashing in on the one thing that interested him. From that moment on, he became “Alibi” Ames and he started a lucrative career.

He had some business cards printed. They presented his name,  “Alibi” Ames, his slogan:  …loyal to a fault …,  and an unlisted cell phone number.  To slower potential clients he had to explain that the slogan could be interpreted in several ways. 

“Alibi” used an actor’s disguises to create a persona that could be mistaken for his client and then create a situation where innocent bystanders would testify that the client had been seen where he wasn’t. Some of these gigs he worked himself and for some he recruited helpers.  “Alibi” wasn’t interested in “past tense” situations or in covering up major crimes, that was too risky.  There were a number of people who wanted to be considered in location “A” when they were really in location “B”, usually doing something literally undercover. A common theme was wealthy clients visiting a mistress while a private detective watched someone they thought was their target have a long lunch with “Alibi”.  Some rascal clients found they could mislead two or three females simultaneously.

Naturally there were other circumstances in business where a more complex drama was needed for business reasons.  A leaked simulation of a board of directors meeting with a hushed and secretive nature could create a lucrative opportunity on the stock market; a bubble that “Alibi” took advantage of,  providing capital to improve his scope of operations.

“Alibi” found he could also have a hand in politics.  The TV Entertainment/News programs loved to catch political favorites  at some unpleasant activity. For instance a decoy tryst by a stand-in would attract enough news-jackals to constantly watch a candidate and eventually catch the real target at something tawdry.

“Alibi” managed to stay clear of activity considered illegal.  If the public mistook fiction for fact that was the fault of others.  He wisely avoided mob activities because they would enforce vengeance outside of the law. When “Alibi” had accumulated all of the wealth he needed he retired and spent his time coaching novice high school actors. He passed on to them the potential benefits to a future career of acting, on or off the stage.

                                     ***

Bad, Bad, Bananas - Joan Shepherd

”Good Morning, Mr. Granville,How are you?” 

“I am not happy, Alfredo, you have made me very upset this morning.”

“Me? What in  the world have I done to upset you?”

These two men have known one another for years as Mr G lives in an old tall brick apartment building just a block away from the produce store of Alfredo. Mr. G is getting on in years, uses a cane, and has a routine for shopping every third day, rain or shine. If the third day falls on Sunday, he skips that day as  most shops are closed anyway.

“Always, with a few exceptions, you sell me prime quality goods. And now I have a complaint!”

Again the storekeeper asks, “What have I done for you to complain?”

“See this?”

 “ Yes, it is a banana.”

“ What kind of a banana is it?” 

“ Well, it’s a regular banana from the Philippines, not plantain or a miniature from Mexico.” 

“You get bananas from Mexico?”  

“Sure. we get lots of produce from Mexico.”  

“But you said this banana came from the  Philippines?”

“ Right.”  

“ That’s probably the reason, but it is your fault.”
  

“ My fault for what? You keep saying that but don't tell me why. What is bothering you with all  these questions?”   

“This banana is no good! Can't you see it is dark? It should be yellow. It attracts fruit flies too. I cut off a little end this morning to cut up the banana on my cereal  and this banana is no good.  I wouldn't feed this to a dog.”   

“First of all, I don’t know a dog that eats bananas, even overripe ones.” He paused, thinking it was a joke but became annoyed again.

“Today is Thursday. You haven’t been in the store this week. I don't sell bad bananas. If you keep them too long, they become very soft and dark. You weren’t here Friday, Saturday or Sunday, and I’m always closed Sunday.  That’s a week since you were here and if it was ready to eat then, it is now over ripe! It’s old! It is a bad banana!” 

           

“But you sold it too me!”

Alfredo shook his head in frustration. Could he just tell this older man and a good customer to go to hell ? He could just walk away – this man, actually he liked the man – this man 

Mr G would go to the A&P store not much further away. Gaining his composure, Alfredo, the green grocer, patted Mr. G on the shoulder and  said, “OK. Have you had breakfast yet?”   

“No, you see, I  was going to have this banana on...”  

Alfredo interrupted him. “yes, yes, I know. I sold you a bad banana. Look, I have some cornflakes in the back. Let's both have some cereal and get  some good bananas, I'll   even throw in some strawberries and...”

Now it was Mr.G's turn to interrupt.”I don't like cornflakes.” 

“Well, you'll like the way I fix them”, and he pulled over two crates, one full of carrots and the other of lettuce. Then he kind of pushed Mr. G to sit on the carrot crate, shook his finger close to his friend's face saying, “Sit there until I get back in  just a few minutes.” Mr. G. did stayed seated.

Ten minutes later, the few people passing by saw two men sitting on crates, each eating a bowl of cereal with fruit and milk. The Starbucks coffee shop across the street sent over two cups of coffee and when the bearer of the coffee told the clerk in the bakery what he had done, that clerk sent over two muffins with the same guy. It was a nice scene. Two men,  talking with an occasional laugh, sitting on crates, eating cereal for breakfast with two  perfectly yellow banana skins tossed on the ground beside them.

                                  ***

Whitney  Janet Wentworth

“I don’t give up”

said Whitney

at her 5th

birthday lunch

Whitney nearly lost it

when first born

just hours old

with flailing arms

she turned purple

in her crib

it took emergency oxygen

to bring her breath back

nasal passages too small

on her new face

Whitney, five today

loves life

peddles her bicycle furiously

no training wheels

for her

climbs trees

reaches for the stars

thank you Whitney!

I will never give up

Nana

                          ***

A Duck Trilogy - Beverly Koepplin, Joan Brady, Joan Shepherd

Feeding ducks is a small and childish delight,

not on par with, say, the frighteningly exciting experience of going to camp

but not insignificant in any of our childhood wanderings.

Feeding ducks is the way we learn there are hours

to be frittered away with the small things, the things that do not talk back,

the things that are tucked away in a less-traveled part of your world.

In feeding ducks, you can let your mind wander,

float up and away, above the water and all the way to the sky,

without any one to say “don’t” or “no” or “because I said so.”

When you feed ducks, you can practice your whistle

or you can say silly things to the waddling and quacking birds

or you can even be silent and listen to the rhythm of your heartbeat.

When you feed the ducks, your world stops for that time.

You do not have to be anywhere else, you do not have to remember your lunch,

you do not have to go to practice.  All you need is to be there, food in hand.

Feeding ducks is a small and childish delight, 

one that we should never forget for in its simplicity

we learn the preciousness of time spent dreaming, of time to be just us.

                                            ***

You were supposed to comfort me today....

in your pursuits, your lounging, with similar...

and dissimilar kind.

My birder friend says that some of you show

distinct evidence of crossbreeding within species.

And today you were supposed to comfort me,

but it is hot, “much warmer,” the on-line, Underground

Weather Channel predicted, for the passing of this 

day...and it was right, and the heat is steadily rising.

 (It has been three days now.)

And you have buried yourselves in reeds, creating 

textures of feathers, between bent, bending , streaks

of green, still trying to reach upward, toward the sky.

And, everywhere, there are signs saying ‘not to feed you.’ 

And in my pocket, there is a small packet of crackers, 

the kind I know you like from before...and when I scatter 

them, discretely, you rush to me, and I take pictures of you. 

Such a scrambling, and a settling again. It is another world.

You were supposed to comfort me today, 

but...instead...today there will be no rushing 

to devour, to savor. Too much heat too long...

and you, none of you, has the stomach for it.

                               ***

Children ages 6-12 months, Mothers 18-35 years:

Mothers  hold the child saying “See the duckies? Quack, quack. Can you say quack quack? Shall we feed the duckies? See, I have some bread in the sack.” She struggles for a minute between holding the child and trying to get some bits of bread, then throws the bread toward the ducks. The child  may or may not say “duck” and probably holds out a hand to try and duplicate what the mother did.

Child 1-3 years:

Mothers put the child on the grass while getting bread from the baggie tucked in a large carry-all bag. Child immediately sees a duck sleeping by a bush and runs toward it, maybe yelling “Geronimo!”in the process. Mother yells for the child to return which takes some time as he is chasing the duck that is trying to escape to the pond.

Some children will debate if they should go into the pond itself to get the duck while the mother runs to pick up the child before he falls in the mucky water.The child cries, then spends approximately 3-5 minutes actually feeding the ducks.

Child 4-7:

The child shows interest by choosing duck feeding instead of the swings or slides. Mother now brings slices of Wonder Bread rather than bread broken into pieces.These children may start breaking the bread for the ducks but keep a vigilant eye for a sleeping or walking duck that will cause them to drop the bread and give chase with an expression of pure joy on their face.

Children in this age group will notice sudden activity between two ducks and inquire, “Look Mommie, what are they doing?”  “Just playing, darling. Let's go get some popcorn.”

Child 8-12:

These children are not naive and have watched a lot of TV and seen many ads. Passing a duck pond, they are reminded of the duck activity, observed some years ago. ”Hey, Mom...” and point at the ducks.“Well dear, They put Viagra in the pond to give the males a boost  so there will be more little ducks here for us to look at and feed. It also gives them exercise because those feet paddle so easily calories aren't burned, and the ducks get lethargic and don't bother the females.”

“You mean they don't have sex? And what does lethargic mean?”

Mother clears her throat. “That's right dear. I think we'd better check the parking meter and put in another quarter. Let's go!”

Child as a teen-ager: (and wouldn’t be seen with his mother.)

Child with a couple of friends – always is seen in the company of friends.

This is like a fair or circus to them and feel they must try to hit as many ducks as possible by throwing rocks, acorns, clumps of dirt, toward the duck . Their aim is better than when throwing bread bits and the ducks squawk loud enough that the patrolman comes to investigate.  Kids see him coming and scatter quickly only to find some way to tie the swings together or to see who can knock over a garbage can with just one kick. 

They are no longer interested in ducks.

Children grown to adulthood:

The teens grew up to be lawyers, shopkeepers, and newspaper editors. Some have offices  that overlook landscaped areas with duck ponds. They enjoy the view of calm ducks gently swimming and have no guilty memories of their teen activities. Women now have at least one child that is taken frequently to feed the ducks.

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