Duck Buddies

Ducks live in the moment, here on God’s wet green gob. Like we all should — at least a little more than we probably do.

I possess no sense of dread. Almost every possible bad thing has already happened to me, yet I’m still here, scanning the paper for who’s pitching tonight for the Dodgers. Or looking for new ways to marinate salmon.

I suppose that’s the glory of getting a little older, which happened to me just the other day.

At heart, I am a relic of another time — and a cautionary tale. I miss the Five & Dime stores of my youth, miss the smell and click of Zippo lighters.

I miss ma-and-pa diners, now nearly extinct.

I miss the way drivers used to leave their keys in the ignition when they ran errands, as my parents did when I was very young.

No alarms. No locks. Can you believe it?

The keys dangled in the ignition as Mom darted into the bank and bakery, the Plymouth at the curb, fully juiced.

Somebody could’ve just driven off with it, taken a joy ride, started a new life out West.

Even I was tempted. And I was only 5.

Eventually, we had to start locking our cars. A turning point? A hint of a society starting to circle the drain? Well, sure.

Pretty sure my mom blamed the Beatles.

It occurred to me, the other day, while spotting some ducklings on the dock, that we’re all ducklings on the dock, huddled together, wondering when the next wave might sweep us off the steps.

Turns out that maybe a bit of fear is good. Maybe fear inspires fellowship and frivolity. Maybe it prompts us to live for today.

Anyway, trembling and cold, the ducklings plopped in the water as we passed, eventually circling back to their safe spot on the dock stairs, laughing at life.

“Just wait,” I warned them, “till they start shooting at you.”