How fleeting are all human passions compared with the massive continuity of ducks. —Dorothy L. Sayers

Geraldine is my summer pond buddy. When she hears my front door open—200 yards up the lane—she begins to quack as she leaves the pond and waddles up to greet me. Generally we meet halfway. As we work our way down to the pond, she stays at my side all the way to the bench at the eastern edge of the pond. This is the feeding spot, the place where I dig into the coffee can of fish food and fling handfuls of pellets across the pond. The second the pellets hit the water, it churns with sunfish, bass, catfish, and koi. These are National Geographic-worthy feeding frenzies as hundreds of fish attack the surface, which boils with activity.

And this is the sweet spot for Geraldine, for I always drop the first handful of food on the ground for her and then drop handfuls near the shoreline where she doesn’t have to fight off the sunfish. She’s the lone survivor of a group of ducklings my daughter and son-in-law raised in their garage and later transferred to the pond. For years, they’ve bought ducklings in the spring at the local farm implement store, and we’ve watched them grow under the heat lamp in their garage pen. And for years, we’ve lamented the dismal survival rate at the pond where predators—mostly foxes—pick them off much too quickly. One year, we lost 6 of the 13 ducks on their first night at the pond. The others disappeared over the course of a week. Geraldine is our Freya, our Norse goddess of war and love who has already made her mark in pond mythology. She’s the stuff duck legends are made of, eluding predators for months and living companionably with the pond fish.

Because I live in the country and because I’m too old to care (much), I talk to Geraldine as we stroll to the pond each evening. When she refuses to move from the middle of the lane, I put my car in park, get out, and urge her toward the pond with the diplomacy she deserves. Because Geraldine is so social (or so foolhardy?), I have to tighten the leash on our young Labrador who’d like nothing more than to practice her retrieval skills on such an easy mark. Just the other day when I walked down to our mailbox, I looked back to see Geraldine hoofing it toward me. You gotta love a duck like her who’s remarkably sociable in every circumstance. She’s a feathered testament to English novelist and playwright Dorothy Sayers’ contention that “all human passions are fleeting compared with the massive continuity of ducks.”

My father, Nebraska poet Don Welch, claimed that “[w]e know ourselves through corresponding things” and that “the supreme value of a thing may be its thingness, its irreducible, but wonderful value; its one-of-a-kindness.” This summer, as I’ve walked at the nature preserve or around our pond, I’ve discovered the thingness, that irreducible value of so many things: orange butterfly weed, indigo buntings, Queen Anne’s Lace, sunfish spawning beds, Baltimore orioles, and one beloved duck named Geraldine. I’ve seen the human condition in the indigo bunting, which appears as a dark, ordinary bird until a sunray ignites it, and it bursts into a cerulean and otherworldly brilliance. Isn’t this the way for most of us, how we don’t shine until another’s light falls upon us? I’ve looked daily for orange blossoms along the trail where, for weeks, butterfly weed blazed along the road. Until it didn’t, and I mourned the occasional orange that punctuated the fields of coneflowers and Black-eyed Susans. Weeks later, when it bloomed again, I was reminded that “To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven: a time to be born and a time to die” (Ecclesiastes 3: 1-2). And each evening when Geraldine meets me on the lane, and we begin our trek to the eastern edge of the pond, I marvel at her constancy, that regardless of the day I’ve had, she shows up. I’ve learned this about myself: how grateful I am for this constancy, a rare gift in any season of life. My father was right: “We know ourselves through corresponding things.”

One look at Geraldine reveals her mallard blood. Even though she’s been bred and raised domestically, I’m pulling for her to migrate south this fall before the pond freezes over. I hope she hears the call of her wild cousins as they fly over. I hope she’s got the wings and instinct to join them. And I hope that, as much as I value her companionship, I’ll celebrate her leaving.

Between the Raecke sisters and my sisters, we had a menagerie of Barbies. I use the term “Barbies” loosely for both official and unofficial Barbies. Our collection was vast and unique: 1) Calico Lassie, an Ellie Mae Clampett look-alike, ordered from the back of a Kellogg’s box; 2) Betsy McCall, a 1951 McCall’s Magazine paper doll that became an 8-inch poseable plastic doll (ours only had one leg—we use and abused our dolls!—who was always delegated as the handicapped daughter); 3) Skipper, Barbie’s younger sister (the real deal from the Mattel Company); 4) Johnny and Jane West, 1966-67 Marx Company cowboy/cowgirl dolls, complete with their horses, Thunderbolt and Blaze; 5) a host of generic dime store Barbie clones whose hair we often chopped off because we were short on males; and 6) Midge, Barbie’s best friend released by Mattel in 1963 and the crown jewel in our menagerie.

The original Mattel Barbie doll was 11.5 inches tall, small enough to carry around yet large enough to dress easily. If she were a real woman, however, her measurements would be 36-18-33. Barbie was a top-heavy bombshell, a far cry from the baby dolls that had previously flooded the market. Needless to say, her debut in 1959 was met with criticism. Some argued that she looked much too mature to be a child’s doll. To counter this criticism, Mattel released Midge, who had a fuller, gentler face but shared the same proportions so that the best friends could share clothes.

While I was the proud owner of Calico Lassie, the $4.99 bargain from the back of the Kellogg’s Sugar Pops box, my sister owned Midge, the first official Barbie in our family. Midge was a celebrity in our motley crew of Barbie clones. Midge, with her red flipped hairdo and freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose, was legendary on West 27th Street. We never dreamt of cutting her hair. That would be sacrilege.

Years after our Barbie-playing days were over, my mom was preparing for a garage sale when she inquired about the tote of Barbies in our basement. Did we want them? Any? All? Unthinkingly, perhaps foolishly, we said no. And so, they were included with other garage sale treasures and sold for pennies. Calico Lassie, Betsy McCall, Johnnie and Jane West, Thunderbolt and Blaze, my entire collection of Breyer horses, and assorted Barbie clones—all gone. At the time, we barely registered this loss, for as college students, we couldn’t imagine that we’d one day grieve our decision to sell them.

As I was cleaning a closet last week, I discovered a small tote of my son’s Transformers, beloved toys that escaped the garage sale I’d held years ago when we moved from town to the country. What didn’t escape, however—a decision I truly regret—was his extensive collection of Pokemon cards. What was I thinking? Why didn’t I remember the Barbie lesson I’d learned? How could I so cavalierly spread years of card-collecting over a garage sale table laden with clothing items and kitchen wares? When I asked Quinn if he wanted to keep them, he showed little interest and said, “Just sell them.” But why did I listen to him? I’d said the same thing to my mom and lived to regret it.

Today, the original Midge would bring a pretty penny, especially if one had the foresight to keep her original box and clothing. Likewise, many of Quinn’s Pokemon cards would bring top dollar, for he’d stored them in plastic sleeves to protect them. But for me—and I suspect others—the monetary value of old toys and collectibles isn’t really the issue. We mourn the loss of these treasures, for they’re tangible remnants of our childhood. Just holding them transports us to those halcyon days of neighborhood Barbie fests and card trading sessions with friends. It takes us back to those days when, after saving our allowance for months, we could finally buy another pack of cards or Barbie outfit. I’m not sure any purchases I’ve made since have been quite as sweet.

And there’s something sweet about watching our grandchildren play with the very toys or collect the very things that we did. Our dolls may be worse for wear, their hair long since unflipped and limbs missing, but they’re loved anew. Our former collections may seem silly to some today, but they’re often treasured by grandchildren who love them because we loved them first.

As I mourn Midge and other childhood treasures I’ve lost, I know that I could find them on eBay if I were willing to pay. For a price (generally a hefty price!), I could replace them. But I’ll rest in my memories of them. I can close my eyes and return to my childhood bedroom with Calico Lassie, who’s meeting up with her new friend, Jane West. I can see Jane, with her bendy legs, mount her horse, Blaze, and Calico Lassie, with her frustratingly straight legs, resort to riding side-saddle on a Breyer Appaloosa. I can still see it all, and this delight me more than I say.