I can think of only one or two advantages in growing older. First, I have memories that span several decades and a personal history rooted in four provinces and three countries. Second, I have become expert in two or three fields, with general knowledge in many areas. Unfortunately, I don’t have nearly enough understanding of most things.
A few nights ago, I crossed the road to see if any new visitors had arrived at the pond. A great blue heron stood at the far end. Not far from him about eight Canada geese had staked a claim. Next I noticed two black, rat-sized, long-tailed creatures on the grass near the pond and three more playing in the water’s edge. I knew them instantly. A muskrat family had moved into the neighbourhood. And that’s where being older played a part. Instantly, memory carried me back nearly seven decades and deposited me on a country road overlooking a pond in an Alberta coulee bottom.
In fantasy, I sat on the edge of the wooden culvert with my bare feet dangling in the water watching the ongoing life of the pond. Muskrats, powered by their long tails, scurried about in the water, diving and reappearing. The round roofs of two hutches made of reeds protruded from the water. An adult had told me that muskrats build their hutches with an underwater entry and a living area above water level. I had seen pictures of beaver hutches built in much the same manner, but our coulee ponds didn’t house any beavers.
My imagination ran wild as in fancy I swam with the muskrats, entered their tiny houses through the underwater passage, and shook off the water in their living room. In my mind the little creatures had separate bedrooms and even bathrooms.
Growing tired of watching muskrats, my 8-year-old eyes discovered a heron at the far side of the pond. His stilt-like legs reached to the bottom, holding his body motionless well above the water. I wondered, “What can he see or hear?”
When he hadn’t moved for what seemed forever, I picked up a pebble from the road and sent it skipping across the quiet surface toward the bird. The muskrats dived from sight and the Heron, spreading its great wings, lifted from the water and flew overhead with such power I felt the air about me move. I settled back on my roadside seat and watched tadpoles swimming in the water near my feet.
I wondered if the muskrats ate tadpoles. In the bulrushes surrounding the pond, a multitude of dragonflies and dozens of Redwing blackbirds made their home.
My stone tossing had aroused the birds, and as I watched the sun glinting off the red patch on their wings, I started home with a Wilf Carter refrain running through my mind. I soon began to sing.
Now, the moon shines tonight on pretty Redwing,
The breezes sighing, the night birds crying.
Far, O far, beneath the stars her brave is sleeping,
While Redwing’s weeping her heart away.
The memory faded and I found myself standing by the pond in Fergus. If you should stop at the little pond and see a great blue heron, a redwing blackbird, a family of muskrats, or even a dragonfly, enjoy the reality of it, or let the experience carry you back. But if you pass by on a moonlit night and hear someone singing Pretty Redwing, you’re not hearing me.
I have learned since childhood that I must never sing anywhere my tuneless voice might scare either wildlife or people.