The Pond

The path is closed

My coworker and I take a walk every day after lunch; as long as it isn't raining too much. It helps keep our sanity and keeps us from strangling some people; who shall remain nameless. We had suffered through several days of heavy storms and the aftermath was prevalent everywhere. As we neared the place where the path thinned, we saw that the way was blocked. We looked at each other and then at the deep water expanse before us. Being creatures of habit, we searched desperately for a way to continue on to the bridge (red structure seen in the above picture) that would take us on our usual trek, through the parking lot of the condos, then onto the front of the golf club and then back to our own building.

“Do you think we could go around?” I asked hopefully; already knowing the answer.

“Not unless you have a raft in your back pocket.” She said, deadpanning it.

She looked at me and I smiled, “Darn it, wouldn’t you know it, I left it in my other pants.”

We looked at each other and cracked up.

“I guess we have to go back.” she said, still looking at all the water before us.

“I guess so.” I said, doing the same.

We stayed there, looking out and saw several geese swimming contentedly.

“At least somebody is happy about all this water.” I said, turning dejectedly back the way we came.

She followed, “You know, I've always wanted to live where I could have a pond in my back yard.”

“Oh really” I said, watching the same sights we saw on the way here, still wondering if there could have been a way to…

“Yeah, I always dreamt about getting swans;  a male and a female with little baby swans.”

“You mean cygnets.”

She looked at me, “Is that what they’re called?”

I nodded. We walked on.

“Did I ever tell you about my aunt’s swans?”

She looked at me, “Your aunt has swans?”

I nodded, “Well, not anymore, but she did.”

Her brow furrowed, “Oh, what happened?”

I smiled and recounted this story to her.

My aunt had also always dreamt of having a pond, and with the purchase of her new house that dream would be brought to fruition.  She couldn't wait to have picnics and go fishing with her family on their very own pond. So at last they moved in and the pond dream became a reality. But the pinnacle of this dream, what she kept in her heart of hearts was the desire; also like my coworker, to have a pair of mating swans swimming in this very pond. The week before, she and her family had gone to a breeder of swans and had picked out a mating pair that were hand-raised and would be delivered when she moved into the house. When it was all said and done an exorbitant amount of money had exchanged hands, but my aunt didn't care; her dreams were being fulfilled.

            She called the breeder the night before to schedule the delivery. My aunt was so excited; Vito and Rosie (the names she had given the birds) would be there early today. She set up a chair in the front of the garage and resigned herself to wait.

She had visions of waking up in the morning, looking out her kitchen window, watching as  Vito and Rosie intertwined their necks; making that cute heart shape when they were forehead to forehead. Then, she would mosey on down to the pond, where, when she called their names, they would rush out of the water, falling all over themselves to be first to wish her a good morning.

            She was brought out of her thoughts by the honk of a horn. She looked up to see the smiling face of the swan breeder. Together, they drove to the pond and released the birds onto the pond.

My aunt’s neighbor; Ray came up from his house to stand next to her.

“Those are gorgeous birds.”

My aunt beamed.

They stood there watching the birds float effortlessly upon the water. Ray broke the silence.

“Hey Soph? Did you remember to clip their wings?”

            My aunt looked at him and was about to answer when there was a flutter of wings.

         Looking out to the pond, they watched first Vito, then Rosie take off from the pond and become airborne.

            “I guess not” He said.

            My aunt was becoming hysterical; she grabbed onto his shirt, “Ray, do something.”

            “Do you want me to get my gun?”

            She looked at him horrified, but knew short of what he hinted at; there was nothing to be done.

            They never saw Vito or Rosie again.

            We walked into the building; our walk completed.

The Bench

The bench I saw on my ride

                 I love riding my bike. On my bike; I can get away from “Mom” and “Where did you put…” I can listen to my music, get some exercise and just get away. Usually, I try to ride as fast as I possibly can, only stopping for big trucks (but now they put in a crosswalk, so I don’t have to stop…right?)

               So, imagine my surprise when I saw this had been erected on my bike path. I passed it and wasn't sure that I saw what I thought I saw. Was there really a bench there? I reluctantly turned my bike around and went back; stopping abruptly when I saw it.

                I got off my bike and put the kickstand down. I took off my helmet and put it on my bike seat, took out my ear buds and moved my sunglasses to the top of my head. I walked to the bench and at first I was kind of offended that someone would place it here; disturbing the natural beauty. I sat down on it and found that it wasn't so bad. And it reminded me of one of my mom’s favorite stories.

                I love my mom; she is my lifeline and has picked me up and dusted me off many, many times. She has taught me when to stay quiet (her favorite advice is “Shut Up”) and when to stand up and be heard (“Even the monkeys in the zoo, when they see somebody go oo oo.”)

                And I love my mom’s stories. She was born in Italy; where life was less complicated than it is now; but I digress. This story is about that bench.

                I guess it was a couple months after mom and dad were married; they had a huge fight. My mother walked out of their apartment and stomped to the car only to find that she had left her keys in the apartment with my dad; and she sure wasn’t going back there. So, she headed for the park (Where else would a woman go in the middle of December in Chicago?)

                She walked a couple of blocks to the park. When she got there, she saw that the bench was occupied by an elderly couple, holding hands. My mom turned her back and started crying; thinking how could her husband be so stubborn and such.

                When she turned back around, she saw that the old man was walking away, and the little old woman on the bench was waving her over and patting the empty seat next to her. My mom looked around, but she was the only one in the vicinity. She pointed to herself and the old woman nodded and beckoned to her again. So my mom walked over and sat down.

                The old woman started talking and mom listened. She told her that she had been married for 47 years to that little old man there, and there were still days that she wanted to kill him. But she couldn’t imagine life without him. My mom sniffed at that and the woman put her arm through my mom’s.

                “Let me tell you one thing. You want to know how I support (it’s a different word in Italian; means to put up with or stomach someone, but in a more loving way) him?” She leaned away from my mom and waited for her to respond.

                My mom asked, “How?”

                Her face got that typical “Italian” expression (If you’re Italian; you understand. If not, the best way I can describe it is if you taste something that is just average and someone asks you about it)

                “Mmmm…I don’t listen.”

                My mom laughed at that and the woman went on.

                “He talk; he talk. Don’t do this; don’t do that. I don’t listen.”

                “Doesn’t he get mad?” my mom asked.

                She shrugged, “He get mad, so what?”

                My mom looked a little doubtful, “But he’s the head of the house; I have to listen.”

                The woman pulled her closer and lowered her voice, “He is the head, yes, but you are the neck.”

                My mom pulled back and she winked and pulled her close again; they now sat huddled; their heads together.

                The old woman whispered, “The head cannot hold itself up; he needs the neck.”

                My mom smiled; seeing the truth in what she said.

                “So, when he say, ‘you don’t do this right’ and his face she turn red, I say, ‘Oh, you can show me? You know how, so you show me then I do right’, then he say, ‘Yes, I am the head; you must listen.’ And he show me. Next time, he say, ‘you do the way I show?’ and I say, ‘ma sure’ and he say, “see, is good now.’”

She pulled mom even closer, “But you know what?”

                She looked at my mom with the same “Italian” expression and my mom; wide eyed asked, “What?”

                “I no do his way; I only say I do his way.”

                My mom was shocked, “But what if he finds out?”

                She gave my mom the Italian hand gesture (put all your fingertips together and shake it a couple of times), “What find out?” she pulled her closer, “He no care; he just want to know I do his way.”

                My mom pulled back and looked at her.

                She nodded and winked holding her head up.

                “He want to be the head. You say okay and don’t listen. But remember” she shook a crooked finger in mom’s face, “no argue; only yes, I do your way.” She winked, “You are the neck.”

                My mom thought about the fight she had with my dad and wondered if she had followed this woman’s advice, would it have gone this far?

                The old man came back, “Come, we go now, I’m cold.”

                The woman winked at her then rose, “Okay, we go.”

                She turned back and grabbed her purse. She lowered her head to my mom, “Remember, the head can’t hold up itself; the neck she is more important.”

                My mom watched the old couple walk away. She took herself home and from that day on, she followed the woman’s advice.

                I smiled; lowering my sunglasses, putting my ear buds back in; strapping my helmet on. I put up the kickstand and mounted my bike. As I kicked off, I looked back, yes, that’s a perfect place for that bench.