Over 50, Still Kickin'

"I'm going to raise some ducklings."

Kathryn stood watching mallards grazing in our back yard. We had built our retirement home on a two-acre lot, sharing a lake with a dozen other homes.

"You have so much to do, already," I observed. "You're repainting two rooms, landscaping the yard, dealing with the contractors, and volunteering on weekends at the hospital. Why would you want to raise ducklings?"

She stared up at me, her big blue eyes as lovely as the day I married her, forty-six years before. "Beverly's moved North with the grandkids, Carlton's overseas, and I'm having the empty nest syndrome. What better way to fill an empty nest than ducklings? They make excellent pets! Can't you just see them, four eager ducklings following me around the yard, entertaining us with their quacks, cuddling up to us on the lawn chairs? It'll be so cute."

"I gave her a peck on the forehead. "Whatever makes you happy is what I want to do, too. Do you know anything about raising ducklings?"

She nodded knowingly. "I read an article about it in Redbook. Young ducklings bond to a mother figure. They're easy to feed and care for, especially in groups. They keep each other warm and entertained."

Kathryn had experience raising our two children. I supposed she should be able to handle a quartet of ducklings. "How long does it take for these birds to grow up and leave home?" I asked.

"Only a week. But if they bond properly they'll be coming back frequently for handouts."

"Like our real kids, huh? Well, at least they won't be borrowing the car."

Clear blue skies with moderate temperatures promised an auspicious morning for duckling bonding. A friendly bowl of cracked corn sat next to a child's wading pool. Beyond the porch our lush green yard sloped gently to the lake's edge. Kathryn carefully dumped the four squirming creatures into the three inches of water.

"Quack!" They paddled twice around the pool, jumped out, and took off full speed down the lawn and into the lake.

"Wait! Wait!" Kathryn cried, running after them. "I'm your Mama! You'll like it here! Come back!"

As the last wiggly tail cleared the lake edge, she yelled, "Grab that box." I followed her down to our small fishing skiff, box in hand. Kathryn revved the motor and the four ungratefuls scattered to the compass points. My wife bore down on one yellow renegade, who quacked loudly in protest. Dropping the box squarely on top of him, I held it submerged until only four inches broke the surface.

"Got him!" I called.

"No you don't." That clever duckling dove under the edges of his prison, taking off in a fury of flurry feathers.

Kathryn raced the boat in pursuit. As we neared, she instructed, "Scoop it up with the box."

I leaned way over, scooped as instructed, and proceeded to tumble into the lake as Kathryn abruptly stopped the boat. Thrashing about, I expected to find my wife quick to my rescue. Instead, Kathryn and boat roared away.

"Hey! Forget that duck. What about me?" I called.

"I'll meet you on shore in a minute," she yelled, in hot pursuit of fugitive duckling.

As I climbed onto the dock Kathryn puttered up, proudly holding a squawking box. Her face turned sad as she scanned the lake, now devoid of ducklings. "All the others are gone."

"Ah well," I said. "A duck in the box is worth three in the lake."

My sweet sunroom, my morning retreat, meant for a retired gentleman to enjoy a cup of coffee, became a duckling nursery. Though it had been a few years, I remembered the days of raising babies. They do nothing but sleep, eat, cry, and poop. That duckling didn't see much use in sleeping, so doubled the output of the other three. We spent three days cleaning up his messes and three nights listening to little Quacker demanding his freedom. Kathryn tried repeatedly to "bond," clutching Quacker in her lap, stroking his downy feathers, and quacking back in what she assumed was acceptable duck talk. In return, all she got were duck bites. In the middle of the third night, she accepted defeat.

"Tomorrow I release him," she promised.

I patted her bandaged hand. "I'm sure he'll take to the lake like a duck to water."

The next morning, thanks to my fowl alarm clock, I was up at dawn. Pulling back the shades, I found a pair of mallards eating under the birdfeeder.

"Quacker's got a welcoming committee," I reported.

Kathryn picked up her charge, giving him one last chance to bite the hand that fed him, and dropped him out the back door. Quacker leapt from the porch, waddling right to the mallards. They conversed in duck speak as he circled them twice, and then one delivered a jack hammer beak-blow to his neck. Quacker let out a happy wail and ran joyfully after them as they charged off to the lake.

I turned to Kathryn to find a tear running down her cheek while she smiled ear-to-ear.

"Sad or happy?" I asked.

"Both. I'm going to miss cuddling our little Quacker, but I'm delighted that he's found a happy home. I wonder why he never identified me as his mom?" I watched the new family feeding in the reeds.

"You should have tried biting his neck."

Philip L. Levin is president of the Gulf Coast Writers Association, based in Gulfport, MS. His published works include his suspense thriller, Inheritance, an illustrated children's book, Consuto and the Rain God, and Teacakes and Afternoon Tales, an anthology of Mississippi tales. For the past thirty years he has supported his writing habit by working as an emergency room doctor. Visit Philip at gcwriters.org/inheritance.htm.

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