by James Sparks.

In 1951, at the age of seven, I was given a responsibility by my grandmother that taught me a lesson I never forgot. It is a lesson I leaned on many times throughout my life. It taught me to enjoy things while you have them, to make the most of life, and not to take anything for granted. It also taught me, perhaps too early, that trust can be fragile. The lesson unfolded quietly, right in my own backyard.

My grandparents’ property in Sibley’s Cove was considered one of the best places in the community. It was sheltered from the cold northeast winds by thick spruce and fir trees, and it had one thing that mattered more than anything else in those days, water. My grandfather dug a shallow well into the shale near the road and struck a steady underground vein. The well never ran dry. Water spilled from it constantly, flowing along the roadside, through a culvert near the barn, and into a wide grassy area that stayed muddy year round.

After my grandfather died, my grandmother went to the United States for the summer to stay with her children. Just before she left, a duck in the barn had laid thirteen eggs and was sitting on them. Before climbing into the taxi that would take her to St. John’s, my grandmother gave me full responsibility for the duck and the ducklings that were expected to hatch while she was away.

I was proud beyond words. The first thing I decided was that the ducklings would need a proper pond. Using sods, stones, and anything else I could find, I spent days damming the runoff from the well. Sixty feet from the well, I built a pond that filled with cold clear water and thick mud. In the middle, it was up to my waist. I knew it was perfect.

When the ducklings finally hatched, I counted all thirteen. They were the cutest things I had ever seen. They mattered more to me than my dog Tim. When the mother duck finally left the nest, they followed her in a perfect line straight to the pond I had built. My mother and Aunt Belle helped prepare food, and I hauled grass and feed in a wagon from near the shore. I would sit for hours watching them tip upside down and feed from the mud.

Sometimes they wandered off and I had to search for them. Other times I would see them coming back from the road, the mother leading and the ducklings trailing behind her. They grew quickly, and soon school started again. My school was just across the road, so I checked on them every afternoon.

One day, a boy from another community chased the ducks from the road and threw a stone. It struck one duck and broke its leg. I saw it happen and carried the injured duck home to my father. He knew nothing could be done. A man selling meat happened to come by and offered to do what was necessary. I could not watch. The duck was cooked later, and I skipped dinner that day.

As summer ended, I grew excited knowing my grandmother would soon return and take over caring for the ducks. They were becoming harder to manage, and I had other chores. When she arrived, she was pleased with what she saw. For several days I did not go near the pond, certain she was looking after them.

Then one afternoon I went to feed them and found the pond empty. I went to my grandmother’s kitchen and asked where the ducks were. She led me into the pantry and opened a cupboard. Inside were rows of large glass bottles. I asked what was in them.

She told me they were the ducks I had raised for her, preserved for winter. She said I had done a good job. I did not understand. Everything felt unreal. I ran home and cried for two days. When I saw her again, I called her something I had never said before and cannot remember saying. She chased me with a straw broom most of the way home. My mother was not pleased either. Years later she told me the words I had shouted. “You are an old witch.”

It was a childhood lesson I could have done without, but one I never forgot.