One of the ducklings has a problem holding its head up, like its neck is broken or something, and is shunned by the rest of the group, either that, or it cannot see where the group is from its awkward upside-down broken neck position.
The ducklings slowly increase their united peeping noise when they see the mature ducks climbing through the cattail grass further up on the shoreline. The ducklings begin running towards the mature resident ducks, causing an angry outburst of wing flapping and charging, frightening the ducklings who back off and huddle together again, quivering. The one with the broken neck is a few feet away from the rest of its siblings, on its side, with its yellow feet running in the air. It is at this point that I decide to take the dogs back inside, since Bonita and Bandito could no longer withhold their pent up emotion. The quacking and barking was way too much to bear. Anyway, it was time to get ready for work.
Henry, who was anxiously awaiting my arrival, overwhelms me with sentimental, shy, and obvious attraction. His sweet invitation for dinner has to be immediately halted with made-up excuses. It’s hard to be nice to someone who is lonely and mistakes friendliness for interest.
Jamie is a little off tonight, and is not too happy working here. I don’t blame her. Even with her lack of enthusiasm, she is twenty steps above any other fellow employee.
For my special, I make beef stroganoff. The smell of onion and garlic sautéing in sherry is making everyone hungry. Some of the guests tell me that they will return for dinner. I set aside two heaping servings of the special for Jamie and I. The rest of the stroganoff was gone in the first forty-five minutes. I could have made three times the amount I did and it would have sold.
We make it through our long shift, and we each take the large portions of beef stroganoff that I had stored safely away, our ninety dollars each in tips, and I head to the fifth wheel.
On my walk back to the fifth wheel, I notice the first few sprouts of grass, and set the sprinkler on the dry area right away. The hot days and virgin soil, have speeded up the germination time; not to mention my perseverance on keeping the ground moist.
Bubba is near the lake working on the beat up old boat I had seen in the forest with all the rusty equipment and garbage. The boat is balanced precariously on the trailer and Bubba is bent over pounding on something inside the bow of the boat. Never in a million years would I have thought it was water worthy, nor would I believe that the lake is deep enough for even a rubber raft. Come to think of it, what in the heck is he doing? Terry comes from the direction of their trailer jabbering about something and hands Bubba a beer.
The ducklings are trying to get into the lake, but the resident ducks attack them as soon as they touch the water. They follow the ducks around the perimeter of the lake and hide in the nearest bush. I think they are hungry, and do not understand the hostility they are receiving. Welcome to Hacienda, tiny, innocent ducklings.
The duckling with the broken neck looks weaker than it did this morning. It probably won’t last the night.
After eating, walking the dogs, and making myself a drink, I sit and re-count my mosquito bites. At this point I have thirty-one. I apply my dwindling supply of tea tree oil, that I’m sure is nowhere to be found in Brandon, and head over to Billy and Ray’s house.
Ray is still depressed. My only comfort is to soothe his raw patches, and rub his weary bones. Billy’s had a few drinks and seems to be in her own world tonight, so I just listen and take it all in. She rambles on about several subjects that I have been inquisitive about, one of them being the ducklings.
It seems that the lady who brought the ducklings has too many on her ranch, and needed to find homes for some of them. Billy has known her since high school, when they rode their horses together, and fell in love with the same man—A man who went off to college and disappeared.
Billy discusses her frustration over all the legal forms she has been filling out on Ruby’s behalf. She is working on a statement for Ruby’s trial date coming up. A statement of Ruby’s good character, and guarantee of employment upon release.
The cabins are still a mystery for Billy, and she feels foolish for ordering something that appears to be a con job. Likewise, the dump truck may have been another huge mistake.
The final subject that Billy confides in me about is a bill from the fire department. She walks over to where I am rubbing Ray, who was asleep, and flails it over her head, on the verge of tears. It’s a bill for the fire caused by Ray’s exploding mobile home. She doesn’t share the amount due, but I’m sure it is substantial. I don’t believe the mobile home was insured yet since Ray was going to get it registered when he had the accident.
Billy never mentions my eight-hundred dollar RV door; and I am thankful for that.
When it’s time to leave, Billy embraces me for a long time, longer than comfortable. Not that I feel it is a sexual come-on, but more of expressing her frustration in life. She needs reassurance and proof that the place her life is at right now is worth the battle. She just wants love in any form possible. I have plenty of love, so I try to squeeze some into her aging bones. Fortunately, she imparts to me much needed tenderness in return.
I return to the fifth wheel, walk the kids one more time, and build a fire. It is definitely a night for contemplation. Instead of sitting on the hard bench, I decide to bring a thick blanket and pillow to be low to the ground and closer to the fire. With the dogs leashed up and curled by my side, I watch Bubba burn cardboard boxes. Terry is sipping her beer, and handing Bubba more fuel for the fire. Billy is leaning on the railing of her porch, smoking, and looking up at the sky. Together, we all gaze silently into our isolated infernos, like prisoners of war.
Chapter Seventeen
Today is Friday the fourth of July, my least favorite holiday. New Year’s Eve follows close behind. How could I enjoy a holiday where someone always losses a limb? A holiday where people begin the snapping and popping of dynamite a month before the actual day, and for days that follow. A day when the piercing sound of fire engines constantly interrupts the BBQ’s and social gatherings, and hundreds of dogs are lost, terrified, and end up in an animal shelter or run over by a car. I understand and appreciate the base concept of the day, but do those who take advantage of a free-for-all blasting rampage know? The same goes for hearing Christmas songs when it’s Halloween; two months of hype. It’s all about the money.
Being in the middle of a national forest for the fourth of July will be a relief. Fireworks are not allowed, but I did notice we had a few sparklers for sale at the register for the guests and their children. Our barbeque is tomorrow, and I wonder what Helen, our patriotic queen, will be wearing. She must have the ultimate patriotic outfit to show off.
With today’s paycheck, plus tips, I should end up with around $1,800 in the bank. That’s more than I’ve seen in an account for years! I think I’ll pick up my check and drive to Brandon this morning to deposit it and splurge on a string of lights for my Barbie canopy. Lori will be here Sunday the 13th and I want to make it special for her and the kids.
The resident ducks see me open my door, and run in my direction. The ducklings waddle at a safe distance behind, obviously still trying to be adopted. I don’t see the duckling with the broken neck. I walk over to the storage shed, retrieve a pan of seed, and throw it across the bare dirt. While the resident ducks are eagerly eating, I get another pan of seed, walk a good distance from them, and throw it out for the ducklings. They eat ravenously, but do not get a chance to finish before the fat mature ducks charge over and take over their much-needed meal. I repeat the process until everyone is full.
Walking back to the fifth wheel, I see Billy and Ray leave the park. They need to get supplies for the barbeque and Ray has a doctor’s appointment. It feels as if it will be a very hot day and several new sprouts of grass are bursting through the surface, so I move the sprinkler and turn it on.
With Bonita and Bandito proudly on their pile of blankets, we head to the creek, to Brandon for groceries, th
e bank, and to search for my special string of lights. When I return, I head to work and have a pleasantly uncomplicated, drama-free, busy day. I am turning into one hell of a fast-fry cook!
The park is full to capacity. There isn’t much time for drama. Of course, there is the expected lack of toilet paper in the restrooms, the trash problem, flies, and Bubba being loud and obnoxious, but hey, that’s nothing new, at least nothing blew up, and no human or animal got killed, or eaten, except maybe a duckling with a broken neck.
After my morning routine the next day, I begin hanging the lights on the canopy. Occasionally, I get a whiff of the revolting stench from the thick film of algae growing on the lake. The mosquitoes and trash congregate on the sludge and make for an eye and nose sore. On top of that, Bubba is down by the dilapidated boat holding a paint bucket and he seems to be brushing the source of an additional toxic resin smell from the bucket and slapping it on the interior walls of the boat.
He seems as determined to get that boat afloat, as my father is to keep driving his 1960’s Ford Falcon with the three speed gear shift at the steering wheel. The Ford is dented, faded blue, and the clear coat is peeling off. Last time I visited mom and dad, I noticed that it had 375,000 miles on the odometer. Dad duct taped over a deep rip on the outside passenger door, and painted the duct tape a clashing shade of blue in an effort to match the car. He’s proud of his ninety-nine cent repair job. Dad has done all the engine repairs and oil changes on that car since the day he bought it—forty years ago. There is as much wire and tape in the engine, as there is on the exterior, but what’s amazing is this; it runs like a jet plane! Dad becomes angry and defensive when we mention to him that he has more money than one person could ever need in their lifetime hoarded away in several bank accounts. He could easily buy a new car. This type of thinking does not fly with his personal agenda and miserly ways. Dad will drive that car until it disintegrates into the road.
I’m almost done stringing the lights when I catch a glimpse of the ducklings slowly and cautiously test the lake water. They are peeping softly, and are apprehensive to experiment with swimming. One duckling gets brave and begins to float a foot or so from the edge. Like a secret raid on the enemy, the resident ducks storm out of their hiding spot and attack the ducklings, who scatter into the dirt terrified. The ducks quack together with their heads arched in pride, claiming the edge of the lake as their own and then float freely away. One of the ducks separates itself from the pack and slowly returns to the ducklings. The ducklings once again huddle in fear. The duck approaches them slowly. I look for my sling shot, just in case it tries to kill one of them. It swims to the shore, gets out, and stands a few feet away from the ducklings, making a gentle quacking sound. The timid group begins to peep softly in reply, but do not move a feather. The duck steps back into the lake and swims in a tight circle, quacking. The perplexed ducklings stretch their heads up to get a better glimpse of the swimming duck. The duck once again walks to the edge of the lake, even nearer to the ducklings, returns to the lake, and repeats the process of swimming in a circle. If I’m not mistaken, it’s trying to teach the ducklings to swim. Sure enough, the ducklings guardedly advance to the water, entering one at a time. The duck quietly circles around the joyful ducklings and leads them away to the far end of the lake, claiming them as her own. I am overwhelmed to have witnessed this event. That duck has some heart! A painful tear creeps from my eye as the happy peeping fades slowly away.
With the chaos of the barbeque at hand, I apprehensively go to work feeling much more confident in what is expected of me. Bubba talks jubilantly about his boat and his intention of ridding the lake of the surface scum by cruising back and forth in the boat, chopping the stringy algae with the motor blade. Of course, he is not chatting idly away with me, but with his good buddy, Karen. I happen to be within earshot and listen intently to his ridiculous scheme. He intends to launch the boat tomorrow when most of the guests have left the park. I will be peering out from the fifth wheel to watch that—a big man in a shitty boat in three feet of muck.
When the insane barbeque finally winds down, a nice warm summer wind comes up to blow away all the flies. I take Bonita and Bandito for a walk. A musical trio, who have obviously been together for decades, is playing old country tunes on Billy and Ray’s patio for the few remaining guests. I walk around the kitchen to the outer side of the dirt road, hugging the unlit tree line, so as to not be seen by the scattered few individuals left enjoying the music. Terry is harassing some lady and accusing her of flirting with Bubba, who is currently doing a jig with a beer in his hand next to the trio.
Safely inside the fifth wheel, I pour myself a drink and listen to the people outside. Car lights flash by my curtained windows as people slowly leave. The trio has finished playing, but have turned on some cassettes through their sound system.
Exhausted, I put on comfortable sleepwear, and crawl up to bed. Suddenly, I hear the microphone making a high-pitched squeal, that horrible noise they make when a connection is bad or when someone handles the microphone in the wrong way. An unfamiliar song vibrates loudly through the speakers, and a familiar voice sings along. “DON’T GIVE ME NO CHAMPAGNE, NO FANCY LITTLE DRINK. DON’T GIVE ME SWEET COCKTAILS THE COLOR OF PINK, CAUSE I LIKE BEER!!……….I LIKE BEER!!!!!……..I LIKE BEEEEEER!!!!!
“Shut the hell up Bubba!” Billy shouts.
Just like that, the music stops, and I fall asleep with a smile on my face.
Chapter Eighteen
It is Sunday, and I cannot thank the Great Spirit adequately for the reprieve in grief, even if its just for one morning. Being raised stanch Catholic, I have retreated from the guilt of going to church many years ago. As I sip my morning coffee, I ponder how comfortable it is for me to use the term Great Spirit, instead of the over-used word ‘God’. None of them being the contradictory, white-haired, old man who is invisible.
From my birth, until I eloped with the father of my children, I don’t believe I ever missed any of my weekly confessions, mass, or any holy days of obligation, nor do I recall ever having a choice. I went to a Catholic elementary school, so there was catechism and many hours of memorizing the laws of the church taught by the nuns. Dad was one of eighteen children raised on a farm in Kansas. Dad’s mother went to church every day of her life and pretty much raised the eighteen children on her own, since grandpa was hitting the bottle or something. I’m not sure about all that. One brother, who is almost ninety years old now, has been a priest since his early twenties. Six of his sisters were nuns, but slowly left the order for a normal life and marriage.
Mom and her family were members of a Christian church, but she became Catholic in order to marry dad. My parents still follow all the rules. Mom would probably prefer to let go of some of dad’s strict demands and church schedules, but has remained loyal, even at the cost of losing her right of freedom of choice.
Dad would give mom a much needed break after mass by taking the five of us kids for a Sunday drive. Our destination was to The Longhorn Bar and Grill in the outskirts of the desert. Dad would leave us in the car while he went in to have a beer and bring us out a greasy paper bag of salty french fries as a treat. Believe it or not, we always looked forward to the french fries.
Since I have withdrawn my membership to Catholicism through avoidance, I have discovered many Gods and Goddesses. Due to my curiosity and appreciation for discovery, I have had many breakthroughs. The greatest breakthrough of all is that the Absolute does not care one way or another what title it is given, nor does it expect you to become a member. The misconceptions came from the visionaries who walk the earth portraying to mankind the meaning of truth. Misguidedly, we give this truth a name, such as, Allah, Buddha, and God. There were, and still are, many of these separate names, too many to count. These visionaries are listening to their internal voice where the Great One lives, the Great Spirit of them all, living inside our hearts. That’s one of the reasons I am drawn to the spirituality of the Native American Indians,
they knew this, and called it by its proper description, the Great Spirit.
It’s time to walk Bonita and Bandito, so I meander down the road towards Bubba’s trailer. I’m sure he is cooking breakfast in the restaurant, so I feel a little more comfortable to not have to run into him. I make the turn by Jim’s trailer and see my hero, the wonderful compassionate duck that adopted the ducklings. She, it must be a she, is pecking in the mud. The ducklings imitate her behavior. This touching union is the highlight of my entire summer experience—witnessing a duck separate herself from her social order to follow her own truth to save the lives of frightened and abandoned newborns by giving her care and skill. To me she is as one of the messengers who have found truth. She can be put in the ranks of all the other Gods and Goddesses.
I am still hanging around the fifth wheel doing odd jobs, writing letters, and journalizing for the first time since my arrival here, when noon rolls around. Bubba retreats quickly from the kitchen clutching a twelve pack and walks towards my trailer. I have the sprinkler set on the sprouting lawn. He seems in a good mood and begins talking.
“LOOKS LIKE MY LAWN’S COMIN’ UP. I NEED TO PUT UP SOME BARRIERS TO KEEP EVERYBODY OFF ‘TIL IT HAS A CHANCE TO GROW.”
I use my coffee cup to weight down my paperwork and exit the fenced area. I walk over to him and look down at the sprouts and say, “Well I’ll be darned! Would ya look at that! By the way Bubba, I didn’t know you could sing. I’m impressed.”
GRILL! Page 21