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Disturbance At Duck Pond "Youth cannot know how age thinks
and feels. But old men are guilty if they forget what it was
to be young." In Rosemère, alongside a tranquil duck pond, we sat at a bench, eating lunch. Feathered friends paddled about. A few dozed in the long grass. All was peaceful. At least until a troop of middle-school aged boys appeared with their bag lunches. The seven youngsters didn't eat much. They began their lunch hour by chasing the resting ducks and swans into the pond. Satisfied at having ruffled a few feathers, they tore their bologna sandwiches into hunks and hurled the chunks into the water. They bit into apples and chucked pieces at the duck house. For dessert, they tossed chocolate-covered cookies into the drink. Dejeuner completed, they stooped at the pond's edge, filling plastic sandwich bags with water. Flinging the water-filled missiles high into the air, with seemingly laser-guided accuracy, the bags exploded in sloshy plops on the duck house roof. "Hmmm," I said, watching their antics. "Today's youngsters may not be as environmentally sensitive as I had presumed." "And a lot of parents are wasting time and energy sending lunches to school," Sharon observed. "Well," I said, "at least the ducks get to enjoy an extra feeding on weekdays. If they don't get beaned by an apple, that is." The group of seven, punching and play wrestling one another, headed off on other conquests. Four 12-year-olds approached from the opposite direction. "Ohhh," I groaned. "I feel sorry for those poor ducks. I wonder how many times a day they have to suffer unthoughtful kids' abuse?" But these boys were different. Whereas the first group had completely ignored us, not even saying hi, these boys came straight over. And they began speaking to us in English right off the bat. Cued from the Canada flag on our flagpoles? The contrast between the two sets of youngsters was nothing short of astounding. The second crew was as refined as the first had been uncouth. One child in the second group was deaf. While two boys took turns asking Sharon and me questions about our trip, a third boy signed the replies to their deaf friend. "Are you doing a Tour du World?" one lad asked. When I nodded, he continued, "As soon as I saw those panniers, I knew you weren't out for a ride around the park. I've always wanted to ride across Canada." The boys spoke with us for close to half an hour before excusing themselves and heading back to classes. "Maybe," I decided, "youth aren't a total write off after all." We departed our lunch spot and searched for a tourist information facility to obtain a Québec road map. I received my first taste of what we might face cycling in a foreign country. A sign (in a promising manner) read: Information. I popped the door open and stepped inside. Surprise! A room full of computer teachers stared back at me. Taken completely off guard, I laughed out loud. I gave a little half-wave to the stunned onlookers, and about-faced out the door. The next place I tried turned out to be a restaurant. "Sheesh," I whispered, throwing my hands up in despair, "who needs a map anyway?" "Yeah," Sharon agreed. "It'll probably be in French anyway and we won't be able to read it." We abandoned our map quest, but found our language problems still persisted. In late afternoon, on the bank of the Saint Lawrence River, we approached a unique café made from an old double-decker bus. The café was closed. But picnic tables alongside the bus begged to be used. We sat down and fired up our trusty stove. After eating too much for dinner, as usual, we didn't feel like riding any farther. "Maybe we can set up behind the bus," I suggested. An old maid, in her front yard across the road, squirted a few bedraggled zinnias that hadn't yet succumbed to frost. I hustled over and asked her if she thought it would be all right if we camped by the bus. Unfortunately, the old woman knew approximately the same amount of English as I knew French. Next to none. Somehow, we managed to hold a lengthy conversation. Eventually we got around to the topic of camping beside the bus. "I don't own it," I presumed she said with an offhand wave, "but go ahead anyway." Sometimes it was handy being one's own interpreter. I shuffled back across the nearly traffic-free
road and regaled Sharon with the good news. We happily set up
our tent behind the café bus. Shipping vessels swept past
noiselessly in the dark, plying the mighty river. Huge wakes,
panting like dogs after chasing rabbits on a summer's day, lapped
against the bank, lulling us toward sleep. |
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