It’s spring, so of course we’ve got hatchlings at the Schiller Park pond. A family of Canadian geese has a brood of four goslings who have been strutting their stuff, to the delight of their proud and protective parents and passersby alike.
The brown goslings are almost unbearably cute, and their tumbling and waddling as they follow Mom and Dad around is fun to watch. Soon they’ll be losing their downy coats and will emerge as full-grown Canadian geese — one of the most aggressive, loud-honking, crap-anywhere-and-everywhere, obnoxious species of birds that you find around these parts.
I prefer them at this stage.
This morning I took an early morning lap around Schiller Park — because I’ve been on the road, the first such lap in a while — and as I circumnavigated the park I couldn’t help but notice a distinct fragrance in the air.
You might call it that growing scent. It’s something you smell every spring — a heady mixture of mulch, fertilizer, damp soil, growing grass, buds, newly sprung leaves, and everything else that seems to be popping as the weather warms and the rain falls. It’s spicy and earthy and a bit intoxicating, and very much welcome.
We didn’t have a bad winter this winter, but it’s always glorious when you detect that growing scent and know that spring has come.
I really hate litter — and I also really like our neighborhood. So when I’m out for my morning walk I pick up the random bits of trash that often litter the ground and pitch them into the trash cans found around the perimeter of Schiller Park. It’s a beautiful park that is a cornerstone of our community, and it really bugs me when litter makes it look shabby.
There’s no end to the trash that thoughtless, ignorant jerks will leave behind to mar the landscape and become somebody else’s problem — discarded Starbucks cups and lids are a perennial find, but candy wrappers, newspapers, and Red Bull cans are commonplace, too, and once I found and tossed a beggar’s cardboard “please help me” sign positioned right next to his tossed Old English 16-ounce can.
The world would be a prettier, better place if everyone picked up a few pieces of unsightly debris — and if the stupid litterbugs ended their nasty habit in the first place and started caring about the appearance of their cities instead. And don’t get me started about smokers and their casually tossed cigarette butts!
A walk around Schiller Park this morning tells you everything you need to know about why autumn is Kish’s and my favorite season of the year. It’s just fabulous out there.
The ducks at Schiller Park are pretty tame. If you approach them they will waddle right over to stand at your feet, expecting that you are going to toss them some pieces of bread to gobble.
This mallard sat patiently, peering intently to see if I was going to share a morsel. Sorry, buddy! Not today!
The Schiller Park rec center parking lot used to have a wide open, fan-shaped entrance. It had a welcoming, graceful feel to it, well befitting the rambling, shady feel of the old park itself and the elegant brick houses that surround it.
But a few weeks ago a work crew showed up and ripped it out. In its place they poured this concrete monstrosity, which blocks the entrance and sticks out like a sore thumb. They put up a traffic sign and painted direction arrows, too, just in case drivers might not get the idea from the lanes created by the concrete blockade.
Why was this done? I’m guessing there was an accident or two at the entrance, as a car swung too wide in entering or exiting, and somebody decided that “public safety” required that this ugly, stark roadblock was therefore necessary to protect our hapless populace from the acts of a few inept motorists. Who knows how much it cost in dollars — but the aesthetic cost is tremendous
I can’t help but think it’s a bit of a metaphor for America writ large these days, with some faceless government functionary deciding that everyday people need to be sternly directed into precise channels of behavior. The result is predictably hideous.
A snow white duck apparently has joined the brace of ducks around the Schiller Park pond — at least, I haven’t seen him before this morning, and given the appearance of his compatriots, you’d think I would have.
I’m arbitrarily naming him Waldo, because he’s hard to find.