Mixed Signal

Dear Boo and Bubble,

The other day, an old friend from the neighborhood sent me a picture of Stone Lake which is, at the most, a 20-acre body of water one block down Lotus Court from 3 Lakecrest.  I haven’t thought about Stone Lake in years, but the sight of it brought back many memories from my childhood. 

Your great uncles and I used to walk down to the lake in the afternoons with a can of worms or a stale partial loaf of bread and a cane pole to fish for bream off the bank.  I remember one specific time when I caught a large (in my eye) bream and put it on a stringer.  When the time came to go home, I pulled the stringer out of the water in full anticipation of my family’s marvel at my catch only to find the fish half eaten by a turtle. 

A padling of ducks also called Stone Lake home.  They usually congregated at the opposite end from Lotus Court, but sometimes meandered down to check us out whenever we were there.  On occasion, we’d cast them some of the bread which inevitably created a Pavlov effect – we’d come to fish, they’d fly down for a meal.

Around this time, great granddaddy Schaefer utilized a very unique method for calling us home from the neighborhood.  He stood on the front porch, put his fingers to his lips and produced a sharp, penetrating whippoorwill whistle.  It pierced the air to the extent that, no matter where we might be, we could hear it and we better come running.  To ignore the whistle was imperilment. 

One day granddaddy decided to join us for fishing at the lake.  He noticed the ducks heading our way.  “Watch this,” he said as he took a few slices of bread into his hand.  He let out a couple of whistles and started throwing pieces of bread onto the water.  With a quacking frenzy, the ducks accelerated their approach, some lifting off into flight to get there first.  Granddaddy whistled several times more until the full padling arrived and splashed around for the crumbs as if they were gold. 

From then on, whenever we went to the lake, all we had to do was whistle the whippoorwill and the ducks would immediately start quacking all the way up at the other end.  Granddaddy even started a ritual of going to the lake a couple of times a week to feed them.

Over time, as we grew older, the necessity to whistle us home subsided.  Bryant and I went off to college leaving Gene, who would soon enter high school, with Mamaw Mary and Granddaddy Schaefer. 

One night, really late, Gene had an argument on the phone with his girlfriend.  I have no idea the specifics but once he hung up, Gene marched down the hall in an obvious emotional stew.  He walked out the front door, down the steps and disappeared into the darkness.   

Granddaddy always went to bed early.  Mamaw usually stayed awake in the kitchen either knitting or listening to baseball games.  She heard Gene leave the house but decided to give him some time and space.  Almost an hour passed and Gene hadn’t returned.  Mamaw became concerned enough to wake granddaddy up.

Now, you boys have to understand that this happened way before the advent of cell phones.  Not having any clue where Gene might be, Granddaddy didn’t have many options.  He hesitated to call Gene’s name out into the night air and wake the neighbors.  He took the only measure left.  Standing on the front porch at midnight, he pursed his lips, poised his fingers and blasted the whippoorwill whistle several times as loudly as he could.  

Nothing…..

He repeated the whistle.

Nothing….

Again, he whistled.

And….from the distance……. “Quack…quack….quack..”

“QUACK, QUACK, QUACK….

Louder and louder grew the yellow-billed, web-footed chorus as the ducks followed the whippoorwill signal to its source.  In an unbelievable sight, they marched in single file down Lotus Court and up the hill on Lakecrest right onto the pine needle path leading to the front porch where Granddaddy stood. 

Amid all of the ruckus with the ducks swarming the yard, Gene reappeared. 

“Hey, I heard the whistle,” he said to granddaddy, trying not to laugh.  “Guess they did, too.”

At that hour and under the circumstances, Granddaddy found it hard to be amused.  He retreated into the house to grab a loaf of bread.

“Here,” he thrust the bread into Gene’s hand.  “You take this and get these ducks back down to the lake right now!”

I’m sure though, Granddaddy had to chuckle at the sight of his son, like the Pied Piper, leading the quacking, waddling pack out of the yard, down the street and back to Stone Lake.