Duck Love

Pretty hard to get a photo from the road, but see the white duck there
on the other side of the river? Brown duck is right beside it to the right
his pale bill is barely discernible.

Two weeks ago as I drove home from a day on the Northside of Indianapolis, I took the long way, as I usually do, so I could drive along the river. Not long after my turn onto the river road, I saw something white swimming in the river upstream from the falls.  A huge white duck. It acted fidgety, swimming this way then that.

Peculiar, I thought.

The next evening Bill came out to have an after work kayak.  As we’re paddling along – still downstream from the falls, I caught movement on the river bank in my peripheral vision. It was a hefty brown duck.

It walked to the bank’s edge and quacked at us.  I quacked back. “Wack, wack,” it said. “Wack, wack,” I said. It jumped into the river. And swam right up to my kayak.  I was super impressed with my duck wack, wacking skills. Bill said that the duck must be tame. No wild duck would do that. 

Peculiar, I thought.

It was a fine specimen of a large brown duck with teal on the wing. It looked like a female mallard, but had curly tail feathers, which I have always thought indicated a drake. Hard to sex a duck from a kayak.

Anyway, that duck swam along with us, and as we sped up to navigate the now-shallow rapids, it sped up, swimming as fast as its duck feet could paddle. 

We got out at the rapids to pull our kayaks where the river was too shallow, splashing over this spot where there are boulders on the river bottom. The duck splashed over, too.  Splat, splat on the watery rocks, navigating by foot as we did. Right beside us. I could have reached down and patted his little duck head he was that close.

Very peculiar.

Back in the kayaks for the short paddle up to the falls. Duck bringing up the rear still.  At the falls, we portaged the kayaks to wade around on the exposed rocks of the flat limestone river bed. Splashing over the rocks with the duck splat splatting along beside us.

Then I remembered something. In addition to seeing that huge white duck the night before, I had seen a spot near the falls where someone had dumped out birdseed, and where there were a lot of feathers.

Hm. Light bulb.

I looked up river and there it was, the white duck, still in the very same spot where I’d noticed it the evening before. I told Bill that I thought he was right. Clearly my brown duck was imprinted on humans and he thought I was his human. I wondered to Bill, do you think someone might have let these two ducks loose here where the birdseed and the feathers are and they got separated somehow? Maybe they know each other. Hm.

So, we started wading toward the white duck. Splat, splat on the rocks came the brown duck. Bill asked, “How far are you going?”  Me: “just far enough for them to see each other and see if they recognize each other.”  Bill: “Ok.”

We waded and waded a bit more. We were getting closer to the white duck but my brown duck hadn’t seen it yet.

Then, one of them quacked. “Wack, wack.” Then the other “wack, wack.”  Wack, wack. Wack, wack, wack, wack!  And my brown duck set off swimming to that white duck like he was shot out of a water cannon.  And that white duck awkwardly waddled at high speed to the end of his log and fell into the water and set off swimming to the brown duck.  

Swim, swim, swim, swim ducks.

And then they met. And then they MET.  Brown duck was much faster than white duck so they were pretty far upriver when it happened, but we could see the duck recognition, duck relief, duck “oh my god, I didn’t know where you went! I’ve found you!” 

Duck love. As they swam around and around each other.

Bill and I waded back to our kayaks, looking back every few seconds to watch the ducks paddle and circle with each other in the river.

When I got home, I googled “what do ducks eat,” wondering if I should drop off some sort of food to them until they acclimated to the environment. The sites I found said ducks are omnivores. They’ll eat anything—and there are plenty of anythings in the Flatrock River for them: minnows, weeds, algae, bugs.  It will be a good diet.

Every day since that day I have driven past or walked up the road to check on my ducks.  They’re still there.  Never more than a foot from each other. At first they stayed very near white duck’s log. But now they swim more freely. I’ve seen them checking out some of the inlets. I’ve seen them on the other side of the river, and up and downstream from their log. I think they have good duck lives. Together.

I don't know if they are a male and a female couple, or two ducks of the same sex who are duck friends, but I know they've found each other again. And I know I have seen duck love.

Today, they are at the falls. An odd duck couple. Still together. 

A River's Ancient Stone.

The Flat Rock River is less than 800 feet above sea level in Shelby County, Indiana. The river travels along and through outcroppings of limestone much of the way from Decatur to Shelby County. I’m a geology nerd and there are incredibly beautiful, very non-Indiana looking spots on the Flat Rock where rock meets river and runs along beneath the water.

In 1862, a geologist wrote that the origin of the name “Flat Rock” for this river couldn’t be explained. Apparently that geologist didn’t wade along the limestone bed or travel down through the terraced cliffs or outcropped banks that attracted me here. Those rocky outcroppings and the flat stone bed of the river are a big part of what drew me to this place. 

Still that mid-19^th century geologist knew a lot that I don’t about the rock of this area. In his Report of a Geological Reconnaissance of Indiana Made during the Year 1859 he had this to say about the stone of the Flat Rock. “The Upper Silurian provides good building material on the Flat Rock in Shelby County. Junction of Upper Silurian and Devonian is found in the quarries in the valley of the Flat Rock. The silicious limestone in the beds of the Flat Rock did not afford many fossils." A “southerly dip was quite perceptible in the bed of the Flat Rock; at an old dam, the rocks were much rippled, marked and grooved by the wearing effects of the water running here with the strike. Immense quantities of chert and confervae covered some portions."

 The 1880 Atlas of Shelby County, Indiana noted that “in the extreme southeast corner of Shelby County… the face of the country is rolling and undulating, and the land is well watered by numerous streams. Flat Rock, Conn’s Creek, Lewis Creek, Tough Creek and Duck Creek are the principal. Part of St. Paul is in Shelby County … on the west bank of the Flat Rock River. At this point are located the famous limestone quarries, from which stone is shipped all over the country. The stone for the new State House of Indiana and for the United States Custom House in Cincinnati is from this quarry.”

According to the Indiana Geological Survey, the name “Geneva Limestone” was used in 1882 to describe the exposures of buff dolomitic limestone along the Flat Rock River near Geneva, Shelby County, Ind. The same rocks were later called the Shelby Bed. More recently the term Geneva Dolomite Member, part of the Jeffersonville Limestone has been used for this rock. “The Geneva Dolomite Member is massive to thick-bedded in its lower part and more commonly thin-bedded in its upper part. The distinctive colors are due to a high organic content, and near-surface beds are commonly oxidized to pale tan, cream, or even white. White crystalline, coarsely cleavable calcite masses, ranging from 1 inch to more than 1 foot in cross section, resulting from calcification of fossils, are scattered through the fine-grained dolomite matrix. Chert is present in some sections, and quartz sand is especially common in basal rocks.” 

By 1876, the limestone of this county was already appreciated as a building material. That year a History of Shelby County, Indiana reported that “The river beds furnish us with a most excellent substance for the construction of turnpike roads; and to what extent our people have availed themselves of it may be seen in such facts as these, that fifteen different travel roads center in Shelbyville, and that there are almost two hundred miles of turnpike in the county!”

It looks like the stone has been harvested along the banks of the river near my house. There are literally blocks of stone on the banks. Maybe that happens naturally, or maybe it’s leftover from when early homebuilders here took advantage of a rocky river bank to chunk off foundation stone.  Road builders hauled stone from my river to build their turnpikes. Pioneers nearby managed to harvest slabs big enough to make a porch (out of one huge rock) for their fine stone house in the 1850s.

That stone has been useful to and used by humans for as long as humans have been here, I’m sure. But it’s ancient stone. It was formed from the deposition of critters who lived in our shallow inland sea in the Upper Silurian to the Devonian periods---that’s more than 400 million years ago. 

And after that shallow sea receded, the glaciers came and went and their melt-off carved out this river valley, leaving behind, when they receded, this beautiful peaceful river. And the 400 million year-old limestone that runs beneath it.

  

Seasons. Changes.

Sunset on the non-river side of the road.

There's a moon dog tonight. I don't see them very often but it's the second one I've noticed since I moved here. As I turned toward home from my quick walk at sunset, that moon dog set me thinking about what has happened "in the valley" as my neighbor, Dave, calls our road, since I moved.  Many changes.

It was minus 12 degrees on January 30th, the day I moved. Blistering cold and blustering winds. My water pipes froze three times in that first month. It was cool inside but not much cooler than in my old house in the city. It was beautiful out the back windows.

I watched the black and white feral cat who lives somewhere, or maybe everywhere, around here cross and recross the frozen river, leaving paw prints in the constantly refreshed snow. Aside from the flood in December before I moved, the two most thrilling events of winter were both times when the dammed up ice broke free and the river, thrilled to have an escape route, pushed the ice dam out of the way and rushed downstream, shoving ice chunks the size of a tractor tire up onto the banks and skittering across yards as it went. The ice cracking was the best part of the winter. Otherwise, my general thought about a move to the river at that time was meh. It's fine. I'm not sorry I did it. But I'm not in ecstasy.

Then spring came. And I was. In ecstasy. And I have been ever since. The Canadian geese, who huddled up somewhere else in the bitterest part of winter began to appear again. A pair who were hanging out in my backyard had two yellow and brown goslings. A nest of bunnies across the street produced a couple of cottontails. A prodigious number of turtles appeared on the banks across the river, looking all drugged by the sunlight, until they caught a glimpse of a kayak floating by. Then, one by one, they'd slip into the water, keeping an eye out for when they could crawl back up into the warm. I recognized the softshell turtles, some the size of a hubcap, and I came to know on which log I'd see the one with the flanged shell. The one who looks like he's wearing a WWI doughboy helmet on his back.

The river's edge filled with swaths of Virginia Bluebells, and the wood's edge with Dutchman's britches. Then, when those had stopped blooming, pale-purple phlox put on a show. The birds, who actually sang all winter long here, broke out into springtime cacophony. Maple seed helicopters covered the ground, and my deck and sparkled as they floated along the river. Spring. Ah.

And now it's summer, or nearly. The heavy sweetness of the Alba rose has replaced the light floral notes of the phlox. White petals taking the place of lilac. The turtles continue to sun on the banks and the logs. Joined now, on the logs at least, by water snakes. I saw a pair making sweet snaky love one time as I paddled past in my kayak. He was shy and slithered off into the water when he finally noticed me. She lolled in the sun unworried.

I haven't put my window air conditioner (no central air here please) in yet. Like most of these river cabins (I mean cottages), mine is two storys on the rear/river side so I leave my second-story windows open at night even when it's a little cool, or a little hot. I'm not ready yet to give up the deep-throated galumphing of the bullfrogs who croon me to sleep or the chirpy, songful racket of the birds who wake me in the morning. I know I'll have to, but not yet.

On the human side of things, I have met few neighbors but Tim who lives south of me has finally walked over to say hello one evening as I was mowing my yard with my reel mower.  It takes 5,969 steps to finish that unmechanized job, according to my iphone Map my Walk app.  Tim said he was waiting to visit because he wasn't sure if I was going to just flip the house or live here. I guess he decided that if I'm willing to mow the yard with a reel mower, I'm a stayer. He's right.

In other neighbor news, Dave the plumber's dog died over the winter. He didn't tell me that but I see the little grave with the cross marker across the road from his house.

And the "summer people" are coming back to their places. That's what I call them, because I am now a "year rounder."

Two of the cabins haven't seen their people at all since I've owned this one. I see the name "McCardle" on the mailbox there. In my mind I've crafted a story behind their absence. In my story, widow or widower McCardle finally passed away a couple years ago. He/she left the vacation cabin on the Flatrock to the children. Those ungrateful McCardle kids aren't interested enough to take time out of their lives in the city somewhere to come down and spend a weekend, and they can't get it together enough to agree to put the place up for sale. So the A-frame with potential, that their parents built as a guest house for the kids, and the old-school 1940s concrete-block cabin beside it, where the McCardles took their morning coffee on deck over the river, sit empty, waiting. A big storm a few weeks ago uprooted two trees on the lot between the cabins. They lie there in the tall grass beside that little stream that runs across the property, down to the river.

Those McCardles don't know what they're missing. I wish I could call them up and tell them that the sycamore trees are dropping their pollen in the lightest of snowy dustings every day now and the day lilies are about to burst into bloom to add their pale orange to the Alba rose white. The woodpeckers are nesting and the bunnies are all grown up now. I saw the goslings tonight and they are almost gray and their tails have suddenly turned white. I've seen a snake cross the river faster than I can swim and there's a shell island just a bit upriver. Best to get down
here to your little cabins soon, McCardles, before the marsh plants grow up and hide all the shells.

Isolation and the Internet - a Year at the River

My view out the car window as I leave for a meeting this morning.

If I were keeping a scorecard of how I've been doing compared to what I thought I'd have been doing, then I might not be doing so well as I come to the final week of my first month at the river.   I envisioned this year as a Waldenesque exploration of myself in semi-hermitage married with a hyper-productive schedule of research and writing.

From the moment I started thinking about moving to the river for a year I've had in mind that this is my year to write a book. I have the topic narrowed to two possibilities: fashion designer, Norman Norell, or, or maybe and, journalist ex-pat Janet Flanner.  What better opportunity will I ever have to devote long hours to writing interrupted only by a couple of days a week when I have to go to Indianapolis for work.

So far, things haven't worked out quite as expected. My pipes have frozen twice since I've been here. New insulation in the basement on the to-do list.  Oh, and my car's alternator has given up the ghost twice in two weeks. At least it was still under warranty the second time.  Frustrating and time-consuming.

But the real story behind my so-far lack of Thoreauvian zen is that until very recently I had neither a reliable internet connection nor a TV connection. The latter I could do without, but not unless I have the former. With neither I have been feeling isolated and lonely. Two feelings I don't experience often and don't know how to embrace as the life lessons they undoubtedly offer.

Instead I spent my time in Indianapolis searching ways to get connected in rural Shelby County.  TV is out. No place to put a dish and my electric-powered antenna, so far, only receives channels starting at 63. Those seem to be an all-Rocky channel, and three shopping channels.  I did order a nice eyebrow liner pencil. But I can spend less than 20 minutes watching and hearing about the fabulous pet shampoo that smells like the beach invented by a Prince, or maybe he was a Count?

Ok. I can easily give up broadcast TV. I do get enough radio reception for NPR thankfully.  But what I really wanted, what I desperately needed to enjoy my rural life, was the internets.  Verizon's 4G network. Nope, not in the river valley. So it's a DSL line for me. 5Mbps. I learned that means megabits not megabytes per second. And I learned that's nothing to get excited about.  But I was. I am. I am connected again.  And my TDS installer, who's also on the volunteer fire department in case I ever need them, promised me they are ready to drop a gigabyte into the service so I'll soon be humming along at 12 Mbps.  Whoop!

So now I can get on the worldwide web. I can stream TV.  I'm caught up on Downton Abbey. Starting House of Cards.

It's so reassuring. Like a big bear hug of technology. 

For the times when I'm not watching the river ice dam break, sending the ice roaring up the banks and over the dam. Or watching how that one stripy sparrow hogs all the birdseed, chasing off the titmice and the black-capped chickadees. Ruling her little seedy roost. Until the Bue Jays show up.

It's ok. I think I'll be fine. Facebook is at my beckon call now.  I'm finding it far less interesting than before, but sure am glad I can hop on once in a while to see what the rest of you are up to. 

Maybe I can make time for some research soon. After all, I have a book to write.

My Year at the River. The beginning.

That's the river bank just outside my kitchen window.

It may take a while to explain how I got here. So I won't do that right now. The thing is, I'm here now and I'm going to see what a year here feels like.

"Here" is a much-added-on-to former fisherman's cabin along the Flatrock River in Shelby County.  I've been working on this place, with the help of friends and family and a plumber, for almost a year.  My original intention was to have it as a weekend place to swim and entertain.  Then, at the end of December, I sold my house in the city where I'd lived for almost 8 of the 14 years I spent in downtown Indianapolis, and last Wednesday I moved into the cabin full-time.

Now I'm trying to call it a "cottage" instead of a cabin. I guess that really more fully expresses what it seems like.  It's not particularly rustic. I have heat, a washer and dryer (thanks to my plumber) and a flush toilet. What I don't have yet is working tv or much access to the internet. Thanks for that alleged 4g network, Verizon, guess it doesn't reach into the river valley. But anyway, here I am at the river "cottage." Planning to spend a year and see what happens. If I can't deal with rural life after so fully embracing urbanness, I'll rent an apartment in the city again after 6 months. If I'm here 6 months then I consider it a good experiment. A year, even better. Maybe longer. Time will tell. And I'll tell you how it's going.

Thanks to my plumber, today I once again have water. This morning after giving the cats their usual bathtub faucet drink and before getting my teeth brushed, the water froze. Since plumber Dave and I have become quite friendly following the installation of washer lines and a new well pump, I called his cell and he showed up at lunch to melt me out.

Word. Basement crawl space walls need new insulation. I've been pretty impressed with the amount of insulation in this place but the stuff that's down there has become crispy. Crispy insulation doesn't insulate that well. But he got it going and put a utility light into the crawl space for heat.

Speaking of heat, the baseboard heaters in the kitchen started tripping the breaker yesterday. After pushing it back on several times I asked for some advice from my son, Zack, who said I shouldn't do that. So right now there isn't heat coming out of the baseboard heaters. I've done a bit of baking and thanks to big south-facing windows have gained a lot of solar warmth, so it's tolerable, but hardly toasty.  I was feeling pretty sorry for myself about the heat situation until the water situation seemed worse. Getting water back has made me a little more tolerant of a cool kitchen. Zack will hopefully sort out the breaker box on Sunday and I'll be back to only needing to worry about where all the stuff that's still in boxes is going to go.

Turns out the real estate figures that said this house was 1300 sq. ft. must have been counting the unheated walkout basement, cause I have not been able to figure out how to fit the stuff from my small 1065 sq. ft. former house into the livable space of the clearly not 1300 sq. feet of cottage yet. I did a lot of purging before I came. But then I'd purchased some furniture for the cabin before I realized I'd be calling it a cottage -- and Home. And I am minus two book shelves here.

Hm. It's hard to give up on a book or any of my good chairs. I'll make it fit.