Pond-ering

A memory from late spring:

There are two logs where the turtles sunbathe on a sunny afternoon, such as this. The closest one is in a bed of water lilies, and today, we see it lazily rolling while a turtle clambers on and the others slowly shift to stay aboard.

I know younger daughter will take a long time gazing and snapping photos with her phone, so I make a beeline for a bench. The tall woman sitting there makes to move over, but I assure her there's plenty of room. We discuss the turtles and the high mortality rate amongst the ducklings.

The lady tells me that she saw a crow make off with a baby duck one day, and that the parents swam endlessly in circles where the little one had been.

As she speaks, I realize she's transgender. We sit companionably in silence, watching the turtles and ducks, while I ponder about how many LGBTQ people there seem to be nowadays, before it occurs to me that they were always there. She gets up and we both say it was nice to meet.

The wind has picked up, and I see younger daughter standing under the willow tree with the strands billowing out. It's the real Wind in the Willows, and I think that Kenneth Grahame may have had a scene like this in mind, with ducks and adolescent ducklings dabbling, up tails all.

It's not a river, though, and there's no sign of Mole nor Rat.

Echolalia

Some time after I cross Rockland, I start hearing the music.

It's a male voice singing in a swooping, sad sort of ballad. It sounds like he's being accompanied by a trombone; I don't know how likely that is. The music seems to be coming out of someone's backyard, but fades as I pass, only to issue out of a garden gate. The melody, what I can make of it, swings around houses, first on the right, then the left.

I realize, as it echoes from a balcony, that the performer is far away, perhaps Beacon Hill Park, or at Ocean Point, or the Inner Harbour, or even in Centennial Square downtown. This is a feature of a summer evening in Fairfield; I used to hear eerie echoes of concerts at the Cameron Bandshell while standing by my front gate on Collinson Street.

Perhaps the concert will still be going if I head into the park, I tell myself.

I walk through the ancient arch of maple trees on Chester Street, hearing the song ricochet, and then a voice seems to say, "Thank-you."

But in the park, I hear no music, and the sun is sinking goldenly into silence.

On the logs where the turtles sunbathe during the day, a long row of ducks are grooming in preparation for bedtime.

A sign informs me that an old tree is deceased and diseased, and will be taken down. I touch the rough bark and whisper goodbye, before going to catch the bus home.

Distracted dog-sitting

There's a bench by the Rideau River, surrounded by boulders where the dogs dance by and sign their names. Over the river's edge, there are more boulders leading down to the river, a favourite spot for canine swimming. It's not strictly legal, but no one enforces the rules.

So I am not surprised to see a white terrier wading in the greeny-brown water. He or she clambers up the rocks, makes an arc around the Accent Snob (who has never shown the inclination to swim), and trots quickly, but with no sense of urgency, along the dirt-and-gravel path that follows the river west.

This is a surprise, because, aside from a woman seated on the bench and gazing into her phone, there is no one else nearby. Puzzled, I peer both east and west. In both distant directions, there are people strolling on the pathway, already accompanied by dogs.

I watch the damp white terrier grow smaller and eventually vanish around a bend.  Perhaps he's catching up with his people, I reason to myself.

The Accent Snob continues his meandering sniff under bushes, shrubs, and stones.  I've stopped yet again to watch and wait for him when the woman on the bench finally tucks her phone away, rises, and leisurely makes her way to the ledge.  Her body language changes from languid to startled as she looks around her in all directions.  Cripes, I think, it was hers.

"Are you looking for a dog?" I call.  "He trotted down the path that way."

She's saying something, but I'm about twenty yards away and can't make it out, so I have to haul on the Accent Snob's lead to get closer.

"Was it a white dog?"

I swallow an unhelpful comment, and merely affirm.  She takes off away from me, dangling a sky-blue leash.

How many unaccompanied dogs does she think come bounding through this park? For his sake, I hope she found him.

A brother from another planet

The Resident Fan Boy, younger daughter and I are making our way down from the Mackenzie King Bridge, cutting through Confederation Park on our way to Elgin Street one Saturday morning. As we approach the fountain (which, apropos of nothing, used to be in Trafalgar Square and is said to be haunted), I see a fellow with a shopping cart bellowing at passersby. The path is going to take us right by him and I brace myself.

Instead, he calls after younger daughter: "Those are nice stockings!" (Younger daughter has an impressive collections of tights with every manner of design; today, she's sporting pink and blue butterflies on her legs.) She turns automatically and says, "Thank-you," before hurrying on.

I'm just coming abreast of him as he raises his mittened hands and addresses the sky: "Someone in this city has manners! It's a miracle!" The Resident Fan Boy and I grin at him and pass from the park unbellowed-at.