Them Ducks
From the telling of WYSIWYG
"Oh them ducks . . . There were so many . . . It's hard to get all the ducks into one story. But then that's ducks for ya. Gettin' ducks to stay in almost anything, now that's a trick. I know my three White Pekins did not appreciate the cardboard prison in which I carried them to their new home, although the one feller who insisted on helping me drive clearly enjoyed traveling by car.
Well, ducks like to get around. Funny how once you know ducks, you can never fail to hear them whenever they are in the neighborhood. Long after our last flock had died one by one in the road, our piece of land echoed one magical misty night with the soft guttural courting of ducks. It called me out of sleep to stand, cold bare feet in the long dewy grass, marveling at the luminous mist overlit by a full enshrouded moon, to pinpoint where they might lay. In the farm yard, brought back by the lone wild duck returning against all hope with a flock of new friends? Wild visitors daring to come upstream to explore our part of the creek, where it cuts our driveway closer each spring? Distant paddling and slippy water slaps . . . cupping my ear and turning in all directions to focus the vapor-diffused sounds . . . craning my ear in all directions . . . of course. They only sound like they are at my feet -- they're in the farm pond next house over. Too hard to reach in the dark . . . too private a party to crash . . . better to stand poised and just hear them, soak up the miracle of having ducks back.
In fact it makes you forget the sight of truck-crushed duck bodies laid on the stump beside the lower arm of the drive. The farmhands' wordless notification and sympathy for ducks found in the road come chore time, while you were at work. First one, a shock. "Honey, what is that Indian Runner doing laying on the STUMP???" Not moving . . . And then, one at a time, the others, to come home to, their afternoons exploring gone wrong.
I do not know to this day why them ducks could swim UNDER the bridge downstream but had to cross ON the bridge to come back home, upstream. Guess it was just one a them duck things. But after the second stump offering I knew we would never hatch ducks here again, right on the road. Penning up ducks . . . well it isn't right. Even after I had to shoot the one buff duck that had only been part-crushed. Oh my. They go hard with snake shot, what I had loaded. She went hard. I was sick.
But now, in the mist, that all eases and fades, and I remember that the last duck actually left by van. Oh that was a day, a duck loose in the back of the van! An all day drive through farm country failed to turn up ONE pond with paddling ducks upon it. Finally I drove over to the next county where I thought I remembered seeing a yardfull, up past the meatpacking plant . . . Hadn't there been 7 or 8 varieties one day when I was out exploring . . . could I find it? Well find it I did, and the farm wife was kind to accept the last Pekin. Good thing, too; poor duck had tried to adopt herself into the chicken flock. Following them everywhere as they ran from her . . . nearly lost several of the chickens, they ran the weight right off.
Well let me tell you when that lady's ducks rose up from their shady naps under the bushes, and quacked at my approach, I thought my armload of Pekin was fit to burst. Did she run and flap across the grass to join up! And in just a few seconds, that old Lonelyduck disappeared into a flock, and became indistinguishable from her hostesses . . . . You know I never thought, funny how ducks will welcome strange ducks like that, and run 'em right over to the pond for a dip. "This is the water! The water!! Water water water!!!!!" And you know every time a duck sees water, it's never seen it before. Uh huh, it's always the first time.
Walter knew that. Oh Lord, old Walter and them ducks. Dear old Walter, rest his soul. Walter had a body shaped like an old potato, and a face ike an old potato, too; but Walter's heart, now, that musta been shaped just like a duck. And I never saw that in him till the day I found him parked out back between chores, in his old sedan, watching the ducks discover a panful of water. I'm sorry now he saw me watching him, just a lttle sorry, because he stopped when he felt he'd been caught. But he grinned. And smiled, shy -- "Them ducks . . . is something else. I never knew ducks." I didn't know then that Walter would not have too many more duck watching days in him. But Walter died satisfied, my husband tells it. Walter said, "Well, I'd rather stick around, but you know I've had me a good life and a long one; I guess it's my time is all."
I like to think of Walter taking the time, even before he knew time had grown short, to stop his chores to watch the ducks.
Brian Emmanuel could sure have used Walter's gift for taking his delight as it came in the midst of the day. (We've come to call Brian the Anti-Duck.) Oh it was something. It was Brian's action as Health Department officer back in the suburbs of Chicago that had that boxed-up Pekin trying to shift gears up at the top of this little duck tale. See, Brian said that . . .
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