What Does It All Mean?
The signs of summer are all around us. Some can be read literally while others have many meanings and reveal themselves as expressions of who and where we are. On the literal side, the villages have added yet another layer of those hieroglyphics that only traffic engineers could conceive of and actually execute. We surely have enough signs and symbols and painted lines in our midst, but now, to keep us on the straight and narrow, we have more. The purpose might be to keep us from straying where we don’t belong or getting onto accidents, but, like a computer virus scrambling information, it has created its own blend of confusion.
I can only imagine what it is like for visitors not familiar with the area. You virtually have to stop your car to be able to assimilate all the signs and signals at the major intersections in Southampton and East Hampton. Maybe that explains all the loony drivers we seem to get in the summers. Perhaps they are not inherently crazy as we supposed them to be, but are quite rational people just stopping to graze in the fields of information, and to gather the intelligence posted on every side, as well as hanging above and painted below them.
We don’t have billboards and advertising on roads. And we don’t litter. Why then do we permit the agglomeration of taxpayer-supported infomercials on where and how to turn or park or accelerate? A certain amount of it is useful, but unlike, say, reading a history book, great amounts of it do not lead to more wisdom.
If all these road signs are self-evident, the signs on new stores opening in our towns demand a more nuanced reading. I like new stores titled with the names of the proprietors. Eponymous names, unlike abstract names and foreign language names, seem to connect more to the community. I realize nothing can stop the torrent of chic clothing stores with European names, and clever little shops that sell an assortment of—well, I don’t know what it is exactly that they sell, but it’s all smartly designed and definitely of the moment.
I’ve noticed another sign of summer, one not so literal: Our ducks are now well fed and smug. Call it complacency of the feathered classes, the self-satisfaction of the waterfowl. There is definitely an hauteur about the mallards that was not there a month or two ago. During the winter and early spring I used to lug my stale bread and bags of cracked corn over to the Nature Trail on David’s Lane. (No, I don’t save stale bread to make breadcrumbs. Do you?) My arrival, especially on bleak weekdays when there were few visitors, generally set off a furious commotion. A pair of aggressive geese stationed at curbside, would aggressively come pecking, often at my leg instead of the bag, and the ducks on the stream would create a tumult, weaving and bobbing and turning circles and practically calling my name in the splashy melee.
I did my part, my assigned duty so to speak. If not exactly a Lord Bountiful, I was a dependable supplier of nutrition during those short dark days. I dispensed seeds and nuts and grains at the Dreen and on Hook Pond and Town Pond. I kept the feeders in my back yard full of sunflower seeds for black-capped chickadees. I scattered bird delicacies on the wintering grass for ground-feeding species like cardinals and sparrows. I hung suet-encrusted peanuts on the trees for the woodpeckers, protein eaters who feast on insects in season. Of course some wonderful sights rewarded me, especially when the ground was frozen and covered with snow. It seems to me that more birds winter here now than some years back—as do more people. It’s nice to have them all.
But things have clearly changed for the winged gourmets of my acquaintance. There is plenty to eat without our contributions. The trees and shrubs and weeds have laid out the equivalent of tables full of treats, and what we see as swarming insects are airborne hors d’oeuvres for the birds. Ducks now serenely swim by while my cracked corn sinks to the muddy bottom of the stream and bread scraps float on the surface. No fuss, no calling, no splashing. Little kids at the Nature Trail loudly implore the birds to respond, and I do the same silently. Nature, it seems, in her eternal and recurring generosity, has brought new sustenance to us all, locals and visitors, feathered friends included.
