On Thin Ice

 On Thin Ice

    On a clear, cold morning with hoar frost magically coating the world in crystals, the girls gave knowing glances to each other as they finished bowls of oatmeal.  No need for communicating plans, it was understood as the sun rose on the transformed landscape.  Coat, mittens, hats and the temporarily dry galoshes were hurriedly donned.  The back door smacked loudly as the girls jumped off the porch, their breath in puffs like small steam engines.  First stop was to pick up the girls' next door neighbor and friend. Sing song shout at the front door brought her always-suspicious mother.  The trio smiled angelically. Ready in a flash she whizzed by her mother and out the door, knowing instinctively the destination.  Mothers, if asked, would not approve.  Out-to-play was all the information required.

      The hard freeze made the ground crunch as the girls followed the well-worn path to their three ponds in the in the woods. The first pond was called the First Pond, the closest and most visited.  In the spring, before the mosquitoes formed a barricade and then again in the fall as cooler temperatures beat the pests back, the woods was a magical kingdom where they reign.

Standing beside the clear frozen pond, the edges were tested for weight bearing capacity with tentative shuffles and then stomps and pokes with a stick.  Today it is perfect.  Delighted smiles spread across their individual faces.  The smallest sister is to be the first to traverse the open pond.  Overjoyed and needing no encouragement, off she goes sliding and moving quickly to the cheers of those on the bank. From the squeaking and undulation of the ice as she crossed, the girls know today they have been given a gift of nature, RUBBER ICE!

     One at a time, to squeals of laughter, each girl takes her turn as the ice undulates and sounds its crackling warnings.  Hearts race as each child intensely experiences the unity of hope and fear.  Back and forth the girls fly, speed and sliding agility being supremely important as they witness the solid waving under foot that give rubber ice its name.   Take too much time in one spot and the weight will break a hole.  There comes a time when the laws of physics and nature ate tested to their limits.  A foot breaks through and plunges into the cold water flooding a golash quickly followed by the other. With both boots flooded and sinking down to the mucky bottom, each in those brief seconds experience the last icy thrill of adventure, grateful that the First Pond is only knee deep. Happy and soggy footed the girls of Clinton Avenue slosh home to be greeted by their mothers.  "We got soakers," trying to explain the accidental circumstances of wet feet and pant legs.  Mother would smile knowingly as the swamp water was dumped from boots and shoes and wrung from socks.  

Baseball Season circa 1958-1962

            Within the boundaries of the fenced in yard of the neighbor boy and the ultra landscaped property of a Detroit retiree,  Mr. Brooks, lay a vacant lot.  It was mowed by "Brooksie," the name the girls called him with absolutely no affection .  To Brooksie,  the group of neighborhood boys and girls were an unruly hoard to be kept off his golf course lawn complete with sprinklers.  The TA-TA-TA-pppppppppt  sound plus the thrill of venturing into forbidden territory made for an irresistible  game of cat and mouse on a hot summer day.  The girls would make a mad dash toward the nearest sprinkler head, timing the entry into the refreshing rain drops just as they reached the edge of greenness marking the boundary of his acres of lawn.  Eventually the shrieks of joy would alert him of the trespass and waving a fist and with a crotchety angry shout, "Get off my lawn," the game was over for the time being.  
   Now, some fifty years later, I realize  Mr. Brooks gave the children of Clinton Avenue a gift, a vacant lot.  The small plot, owner in absentia,  grass clipped regularly,  was vacant, a vacuum that sucked in the imaginations of a tribe of baby boomers.  The girls and boys of Clinton Avenue gathered on neutral ground to form teams, line up wooden plank bases, make their own rules and PLAY BALL!
       The boys and girls of Clinton Avenue would gather on this green expanse and choose teams.   All would be chosen, even littlest sisters and brothers.  One boy, so strong in his upper body that he could go to a handstand on a fence post, had weak and crippled legs.  He walked slowly and running was impossible.   Down on his hands and knees, he was swifter.  Shorter bases were laid down just for him.  With a powerful swing he frequently hit home runs.
       The rules of the game were frequently up for debate.  Who was the home team?  One of the two captains tossed the the bat into the air, the other grabbed it somewhere along its length.  Hand over hand,  up the bat until the last eagle claw on the wooden knob at the end was clutched.  This person decided whether they were at bat or in the field.  Politely taking turns, teams were chosen.   Not enough players?  No problem,   at bat team supply a catcher, perhaps a designated pitcher for both teams.  It didn't matter.  We did what ever it took to play ball.
          All of the neighborhood kids gathered in this space, the younger siblings, boys, and girls, all preadolescent.  In this space the children made memories of cooperation, following the rules, when to bend the rules in the interest of fairness and the friendship that bound it all together.  Conflicts arose but were resolved knowing that the alternative would end the game.  Each child got a turn at bat,  "hey batter, batter....swing!"  No umpire to call balls or strikes, each could wait for their sweet pitch.   Smaller children were given 4 strikes and the really small got to swing until the ball was hit.
     One boy from town who played little league would ride his bike out to play.  Happy and goofy this boy fit in with the children and followed our "rules."  On the Little League field his play was inconsistent,  wildly varying from heroically spectacular to embarrassingly inept.   The boys and girls of Clinton Ave.  were always happy to see him.  He basked in the idolization of the girls young brother.  When he appeared to play, he was always chosen first and could hit the ball across Clinton Ave.  However, on one memorable occasion he reenacted "Casey at the Bat."  One of the girls pitched and when he whiffed the last pitch, the sisters all cheered and hugged.  Our "professional" ball player displayed the grace and good humor we all admired and the game went on.
       To this day, I do not remember the score of a single game.  No parents or adults ever participated. What I do remember is a group of children just being kids learning about life through play.  Now I know what a blessing that is.  Belatedly, thank you to Mr. Brooks for mowing the grass.
 

Ariel

Ariel:

Your charm so strongly works ‘em

That if now you beheld them, your affections

Would become tender.

Prospero:

Dost thou think so, spirit?

Ariel:

Mine would, were I human. From the Tempest by William Shakespeare (always used pronoun, “he”  is a spirit and depicted in drawings as feminine)

        

Curtis, Russell and Ellenora were trying to be patient while mom drove around doing shopping.  Little sister, Ellenora, needed new shoes; Big, big brother, Curtis, a new bathing suit and big brother, Russell, needed nothing at all.  Mom promised a stop at the park with the old train engine on the way home.  Harmony and peace reigned in the back seat of the old brown station wagon.  The children smiled and laughed as they talked about the train, and the swings and slides.

One more stop to get the tires rotated and then on to the park!  The big brothers and little sister watched through the glass as the workers used a loud air wrench to take bolts off of each tire and then move them to a different spot on the car.  Mom explained,  “Putting the tires in different places on the car makes them last longer.”

The last bolt was tightened and the car taken off the lift.  Everyone was scrambling back to the car when Russell saw something small among the old tires sitting out side.  Russell was the quietest of the children but very observant.  It hopped, made little launches into the air and then plopped back.  It was a baby bird.  It was scared. It was frantic.  The little baby bird had lost its family and home and did not know how to fly yet.

Mom took over and scooped up the little baby and held its warm body in the palm of her hand.  His little heart felt like a vibration, it was beating so fast.  Feeling safe, the little bird relaxed as the children looked on with fascination.

The mother and her three children all stood quietly gathered around the baby bird wondering, “What shall we do now?”  This little baby cannot survive long by this busy highway.  He could not get food for himself.  If a cat came along, he could not fly away.  “Mom, we have to take care of this baby bird until he can fly?

“I know,” agreed Mom.

         Curtis sat in the middle and gently held the baby bird while mom drove straight home.  None of the children minded at all when they passed the park with the train.  The three barely looked up not wanting to take their eyes off of their new charge.  Each took a turn using their pointer finger to pet the tiny bird’s head and down its back to it new tail feathers.  He did not try to fly away or struggle, he just felt safe.

         “What kind of bird is this baby, Mom?” asked  Curtis.  Mom did not know the answer.  She knew that babies do need to eat and be kept warm and safe until able to care for themselves. 

Ellenora suggested, “Lets think of a name we can call him.” Is the baby bird a boy or girl, everyone wondered out loud?  Mom explained that it is hard to tell a baby boy bird from a baby girl.  When they are grown up, people can tell by the feathers.  Many boy birds have fancy feathers because that is what the girl birds like.  The girl birds need to hide while sitting on their eggs in a nest, so they need camouflage colors that are brown and grey.

         The brothers wanted a boy name and little sister wanted a girl name.  Mom settled it by choosing the name, Ariel.

         Mom explained that Ariel was a perfect name.  Ariel is a Spirit helper in a William Shakespeare play called the Tempest.  Ariel was rescued from a tree and was bound to serve a man named Prospero.  In the story Ariel is neither boy nor girl.  Ariel often gives helpful advice to Prospero.  The children liked it because they thought of another word that sounds the same, “aerial.” This word means, existing high in the air. 

Ariel was now warm and safe, but what does he eat?  Some birds eat bugs; some eat seeds, some worms.  There are thousands of possibilities. 

         “Birds eat breadcrumbs,” Russell offered.    He had noticed how Grandma threw the old bread and burnt toast under the bird feeder and watched while the sparrows and wrens swooped down to peck at it.  Some times a crow would carry away a whole slice!  Gathering around with tiny breadcrumbs in his  outstretch palm, Ariel turned up his beak in a “no, thank you” gesture. Although he must be famished, breadcrumbs, clearly were not in his diet.

“If only we knew what kind of bird Ariel is,” Mom complained.  “We will try something else.”  Many birds that eat worms and bugs, slugs and such will eat hamburger.  With great anticipation, it was offered.  Once again the beak turned up.  If Ariel could talk, he would have said, “Yuk, no way!”  He couldn’t talk.  He could not tell us what to do but if Ariel didn’t get some food soon, well; nobody wanted to think about that.

All that day, Ariel took turns riding around on the pointer finger of each child.  Mother was worried though.  She got out books on birds and started to look at pictures for a clue as to what kind of bird this could be?  She looked carefully at the bird.  What do you notice, she asked each child.  Curtis noticed the black mask around Ariel’s eyes.   Ellenora spotted the yellow on its tail.  Russell watched carefully and spied some feathers that stuck up on the back of Ariel’s head.

The children gathered around the kitchen table while Mom turned the pages of Bird of Michigan Field Guide looking for an adult bird that had some of the features of little Ariel.  At last they turned a page and Mom said, “Ah ha, I think our little friend is a Cedar Waxwing!

Cedar Waxwing birds eat fruit.  The children had some grapes and they cut them in half and offered one.  The little Waxwing chick started to peck enthusiastically and voraciously at the grape.  Arial was sooo hungry that he ate and ate while the children and mom looked on with relief.  Ariel now had everything he needed to survive until he was old enough to fly. 

The days past and the children came to love the bird they called Ariel.  Ariel was a wild bird and each child knew that the day would come when Ariel would fly away.  Curtis liked to say, “Someday Ariel will be aerial.”  Curtis instructed his younger brother and sister in the art of fledgling  flying lessons from the perch of his pointing finger.  Ariel would make flapping motions with his wings but still could not fly very far.  Ariel rode around on the children’s shoulders and rested in a laundry basket.  He loved to eat almost any kind of fruit.

Mom wanted Ariel to learn how to fly because soon the family would be going on a camping vacation.  As the time drew near, mom had to decide what to do if Ariel was not aerial.  At last, she found a wildlife rescue station nearby and called on the telephone.  She told all about Ariel and asked if they would keep him until he could fly.  Yes, was the reply.

The children were sad when mom explained that Ariel could not come on vacation with the family but together they would make sure the fledgling would be safe until full-grown and take to the air in flight.  Mom drove the three plus Ariel to the Nature Center where a nice lady took over.  “Have a good life little friend.”  “Fly back and see us.”  “Thank you for teaching us about birds.”  “We love you Ariel.”  With happy tears they left to get ready for an exciting camping trip to Canada. 

         This is a true story.  It happened many years ago when your moms and dads were my children:  Curtis is Justin, Russell is Ross and Ellenora is Lauren.  Mom is your grandma.  I wrote this story just for you, my dear grandchildren.  I was inspired because Grandpa and Grandma planted two Serviceberry bushes and yesterday they filled with flocks of Cedar Waxwing birds.  Grandma thought about Ariel and he is a wonderful spirit memory that  forever connects us all.

These are the birds that found my bush.  I took this picture as they gobbled the berries.

Some Interesting Facts

about Cedar Waxwings

1.  The name comes from the red waxy tips on the wings.  The tips get bigger as the bird gets older.

2.  These birds LOVE fruit and can survive on fruit alone for months.

3.  Cedar Waxwings flocks eat in shifts and are very polite unlike most birds that just eat what they can.

4.  These birds don’t have a song, they make a buzzing sound.

5.  A group of Waxwings is called an “ear-full” or a “museum.”  (that is just plain silly but true)