There is no final exit so demeaning as being nibbled to death by a duck. Why might that be? I may be on the verge of discovering the answer to that age-old question. I seem to be haunted by ducks, mallard ducks specifically, and worry that when I die, my afterlife will continue to be the object of some specter duck’s incessant nattering haunt.
For me it all started when I was two and found an Easter duckling in my basket along with the colored eggs and jelly beans. It was my daddy’s doing. He loved me more than I deserved since I was a fountain of misbehavior if my mommy was to be believed. I loved that duck. It was soft and yellow, and very dear. He was little; I was big. I wanted to speak with him but was uncertain about how. My animal books said that cows go moo, dogs go woof, and ducks go quack. My duck wouldn’t quack. He was a bad duck. I determined to make him quack so he would be a good duck. I worried about how best to influence him toward behaving properly. When the answer came to me in a flash of glorious insight, I set the duck on the ground, put a board on top of him, and stood on the board. He would surely quack. But he didn’t.
That memory came charging back into consciousness yesterday when I locked horns with Melissa Shrimplin, the program manager at the JCC (Jewish Community Center) where I am spending my days learning how to be a happy healthy senior as I devolve into decrepitude. There is much to be learned at the J, and I am determined to get it figured out, in spite of myself.
Things were going as well as could be expected, given my complex provenance, and Melissa’s creative programming efforts were exemplary. Covid appeared to be at bay, and oldsters were returning as their confidence in vaccination status gave them the will to socialize. That was when the ducks showed up—again. It was a mother mallard trailing a clutch of cuties dressed in speckled down. She, with her newly hatched brood, was trapped inside the atrium of the JCC and she wanted out. She had flown in and could surely fly up and out, but the babies couldn’t. It was time to lead those chicks to water, and the only available fluid was dyed green and pumped in an endless loop through a decorative vertical fountain. The entire cadre was mounting an attack on the window glass surround, their frenzied barrage to absolutely no avail. They repeatedly slammed feathered and fuzzied bodies against the invisible barrier. They squawked, fluttered, righted themselves, and retreated to try yet again.
I muttered about the quandary and asked Melissa, the friendliest power figure in sight, to please get somebody to call the US Fish and Wildlife Service since they are empowered to resolve such situations. She assured me that had been accomplished, and the babies would soon be relocated to a proper habitat. I breathed with relief and proceeded with my senior day.
But many suns after that, finding myself in a pocket of time between activities, I wandered out into the atrium, remembering the ducks and glad they had found a forever home. But as I strolled toward the far corner of the landscaped area admiring the healthy trees and bushes, what did I hear but a quack. It was the mother duck—still there. She quacked again—a reprise. Then she flap-waddled out from beneath her cover, quacking to her brood to keep-the-quack-up-or- else. I was aghast. They were still stranded. The only water was a concretized green puddle that offered no opportunities for teaching young how to dabble for food. How could they grow up to be proper knowledgeable waterfowl? Some kind JCC soul must have been feeding them or they would already have become dead ducks.
A normal response to this information would have been a mild exclamation of amazement, and on to other things. But I have a history with this kind of poultry. I remembered as a toddler killing my pet duckling out of human ignorance. It is hard to be dumber than a duck, but I had qualified. As I traversed all my many days, again and again I encountered ducks. Shortly after moving to Boston, Massachusetts, a lovely blue sky day sent Mommy and me to Boston Commons where we enjoyed a ride on the famous Swan-Boats. It was one of those never-to-be-forgotten kind of days. Everywhere the boat putt-putted it was accompanied by swarms of mallards positioning themselves for gratuitous tidbits. The fat torpedo shaped bodies glided smoothly across the water, stopping every few foot-paddles to pivot head-down/tail-up, browsing for underwater produce. They seemed to prefer our bread crumbs though and always gladly forsook dabbling for begging. Several mother hens had clutches of babies that followed with unerring loyalty. It was impossible to witness their antics without smiling, making it a happy memory.
Months later the Christmas Fairy arranged for a new book to find its way under my family’s tree. It was a 1941 first edition of Robert McKloskey’s book, “Make Way for Ducklings.” It was a relief to find that my fowl murder hadn’t stunted the species. Other ducklings had mother and father ducks who tried hard to keep them safe. Even when the family made a mistake, humans were able to understand and help them move through danger to a perfect home beside the Charles River. It was my perfect book, assuring me that mistakes could be forgiven, and everything could finally be OK.
Many years later my husband, Ken, and I made a home on Irvine, California’s Woodbridge Lake. We chose the condo especially for its lake access, with a deck that allowed fishing from either the living room or from the dining room. Such intimacy with the water was pure pleasure, and every night after dinner our favorite pastime was a holding-hands promenade around the lake. Of course my mallards had made an appearance, though a continent away. The mother birds understood that our deck was a safe place to hatch babies, and we enjoyed the annual parade of ducklings making their way down to try the water.
It was during that residence along the lakeshore that I learned about duck rape. Ken and I observed on our evening walks that ducks don’t simply agree to mate. Several drakes would surround a hen. They would hold her head down on the ground, while one at a time other ducks would have at her. It was scandalous. I was discouraged to find that my cherished waterfowl were lacking in nobility. I’m still hoping that it was just a California anomaly, and that species-wide such ignoble behavior is not a universal.
Nothing is ever perfect. That was a good lesson to learn. Expectations of perfection of myself, or of others, is foolish and sure to lead to disappointment. We all manage to be pretty wonderful most of the time. That applies to ducks, to JCC managers, and even to myself. We could have enjoyed living into being McKlowsky heroes to our misplaced mallards, but I am the one with a duck issue. To well-adjusted people they are just waterfowl. The ducks are sure to understand and forgive. So must I.
morethanenoughtruth 