Duck Talk

Neighbor Nancy had already run a huge circle with Labradoodle Teddy when she doubled back to walk with me.  She said Teddy seems to need both speed and time spent outside.  When we were next to the water at the millpond, I heard the low grumble of male mallards.  I told Nancy that my dad explained the males do the grumbling, and the females do the quacking that we associate with ducks.  I did a quiet imitation.   

Nancy laughed when a real duck replied behind me, “Quack!  Quack!  Quack!”   

What on earth do you suppose I said in duck talk?

A Hoot Verified

I heard the big owl while I walked from the village parking lot to the boat ramp. 

“Did you hear the owl?” I asked one of the men who regularly drops by the beach area early in the morning.  I noticed these men when I resumed walking in the village after knee surgery.  They come from various directions, park near the boat ramp with their windows open, and enjoy chatting with each other.

“Sparky said he heard it,” Denny replied. 

I was being careful not to call the bird a hoot owl.  When I first heard that call years ago, I looked in the bird book for a hoot owl and found there wasn’t one.  I distinctly remember my grandmother telling a tale for us children about a hoot owl.  She made the story come alive by imitating an owl sound.  That must have been a standard southern thing to call those nocturnal birds “hoot owls.”  Another is the habit of calling a dog, not necessarily a young dog, a puppy dog.  Kitty cat is more universal.  Why people from the south slow their speech even more with double-named animals is beyond me.  Nothing brands one as a southerner quicker than using puppy dog in a sentence.  I didn’t want to stigmatize myself with colloquial speech any more than I had to.  The accent is bad enough.  Hoot owl would not cross my lips.

Sparky was walking down the ramp to the floating pier.  He joined the conversation saying, “I heard the hoot owl.  I’ve never seen it flying, but it’s got to be a big bird.”

What a hoot!  Sparky called it a hoot owl!  Maybe that’s what everyone says when they don’t know the exact name of the bird!

The first thing I did when I walked in the house was to get out the marvelous bird book husband John bought me.  I played the clip of the Great Horned Owl, which is what I thought I’d heard this morning.  The rhythm wasn’t the same, nor was the range as low.  I played five or six different calls until I came to the one that matched the village bird.  It was a Barred Owl, a common owl living in New York year round.  I’ll have to remember the name is eminently acceptable, not barred from my speech.

Dirt Devil, Aptly Named

In my mind, cleaning is just an exercise in rearranging dirt.  Nothing is everlastingly clean, and whatever you do will have to be done again in an amazingly short time.  I stretch that short time to the limits.  Because the squirrels had been pelting our stoop with beech nut hulls, we tracked in thousands of sharp edged pieces.  Most of them were scattered about the carpet inside the front door, but others made their way to the alcove at the top of the stairs and into my bedroom.  For the past week I’ve swept the stoop once or twice a day to interrupt the cycle, but much damage had already been done.  After my husband and grandsons went to the county park to ride steam trains, I hauled out the little Dirt Devil vacuum cleaner.  It failed at the end of my last session, but husband John got it going again.  I don’t think he did anything to it, except maybe glare at it.  Starting with the dining room, I pushed and pulled the red machine under the table, all around and under the chairs.  I stopped twice, and where I stopped, the machine deposited dirt.  I might as well have been walking a dog!  A dog moves around and makes deposits which you have to clean up, but at least it wags its tail and responds to you.  Moving into sunlight in the kitchen area, I saw there was no dirt in the clear holder.  Great!  Only the dirt held by suction was actually transported to another place.  The rest must have been scattered into the corners, where it will remain unseen because I won’t look.  You’d better not look, either, if you know what’s good for you.  I took the Dirt Devil apart and found the assembly had not been properly seated, undoubtedly because I hadn’t twisted it all the way the last time.

The Devil and I began again in the living room where the real mess was (and is).  Most of the hulls were no longer evident by sight, although I’m sure a bare foot would find plenty to complain about.  I was ready to stop when the vacuum stopped itself.  By hand I picked up the biggest pieces left under the machine and dragged it to the kitchen.  When I unlatched the holder, dirt sprayed in all directions.  I emptied the now full container and saw with dismay that the Devil had dirt in its holder and all over the top.  I turned the whole machine upside down over the garbage and shook it for good measure.  Anger is a great help in times like this.  I made sure the wicked thing was put together tightly.  Plugging it in near the coffee maker, I pressed the start button, hoping to clean up the new mess I’d just made.  Nothing happened.  It wouldn’t go when connected in the dining room, either.  Rats!  I shoved the thing ignominiously under the window and went back to pick up the biggest pieces of hulls and dirt in the kitchen.  And that, my friends, is why I make myself vacuum at least twice a year, whether the carpets need it or not.