Duck Pond Time Machine

A quack from the past

My husband left for a weeklong work trip on Sunday and I drove him to the airport because I’m a Perfect Wife. Afterwards, the baby and I drove to Santa Monica, where I was once a baby, to visit my childhood park.

Douglas Park occupies a city block between Wilshire and whatever is north of Wilshire (I’m not a cartographer, leave me alone). There’s a lot in that block: tennis courts, a skate park, a few playgrounds, lawn bowling greens, a duck pond. To my childhood self it was an endless patch of wilderness conveniently located next to a Jack-in-the-Box. To my adult self it was a normal sized park conveniently located next to a former Jack-in-the-Box (now a Del Taco).

Upon arrival, my daughter was tired and cranky, but I was determined that she experience the joy of my childhood duck pond, so I yanked her out of her car seat and we sauntered over.

IMAGE DESCRIPTION: a painting of the Douglas Park duck pond given to me by my mother. A Eucalyptus tree hovers in the background behind some shrubs, which give way to a rolling lawn, which leads to some rocks, which lead to…you guessed it…ducks (quack quack) and one swan (honk honk?).

Hazarding a guess, I’d say there were some renovations to this public park since the late 80s, but the charm I remembered remained. The pond has a gentle rock waterfall and bridges and little outcroppings to get you closer to the duck action. An island I vaguely remembered had disappeared, but maybe it was just a large rock inflated by my childhood imagination.

We wiped the sleep from our eyes and marveled at the ducks (quack quack) and turtles (splish splash?). The ducks were being ducks—paddling, ruffling, executing high-velocity water landings, attacking each other, escaping each other, etc. The turtles were being turtles—attempting to stand on the rocks that ducks were already sitting on, standing on rocks ducks weren’t yet sitting on, standing on each other’s shells when no rocks were available, etc.

Eventually (inevitably) my daughter wanted to get closer to the ducks and turtles via the dirty pond water, but since she is a baby who can’t swim and I’m an adult who didn’t have a change of clothes, we moved on to the playground. After a few tired minutes on the slide I popped her in the stroller we walked to the house where the artist (me) spent her early years.

It remains much as a remember it: a one-story bungalow in a neighborhood where small, mid-century lots are slowly being filled to their perimeters with multi-story structures that look like what Home Goods would sell if they sold homes in addition to goods.

We rounded the corner lot, stopped for pancakes, and then drove back to our own side of town, our own park. No ducks, turtles, or Del Taco (formerly Jack-in-the-Box), but enough for future fond memories, I hope.