Another Duck Dynasty...

It had seemed like a good idea at the time.  After moving our young family to the country to enjoy the peace and tranquility of a new home on a private three acre retreat backing up to a large pond, I had surprised the kids with six baby ducks rescued from a nearby farm.  They were Muscovy ducks, Brazilian in origin and known as adults for their ugly faces, bulky size, sharp talons, the hissing sound they make when threatened, and their tasty meat, but as baby ducks they disguised themselves as cute little yellow feathery fellows who just wanted to come home with us.

My mind clouded with heavenly images of us sitting on the back porch sipping lemonade and enjoying the scene of herons, deer, geese, hawks and raccoons playing in our backyard now joined by friendly ducks who would thankfully eat from our hands. Thinking the nature surrounding our new home could use a little more ambiance, I paid little attention to the fact that the ducks were free, as in no charge, and even less attention to the tiny voice on my shoulder pleading “don’t do it”, and brought them to live with us.

They immediately imprinted on our dog who seemed to enjoy his new role as Mother Duck, and we laughed at the parade of ducklings following Casper wherever he went.  We named them.  We fed them.  They grew.  And they became big, scary, taloned, ugly ducks who constantly patrolled our property like a pack of redneck hoodlums, hissing and pooping and mating and laying eggs over and over again.  The scene from our back porch metamorphosed into the National Geographic channel in 3D.  Female ducks filled their clumpy nests with dozens of eggs in the manicured hedges lining our beautiful home while male ducks sunned on our poop-covered driveway and coons stole eggs and hawks dove to attack and eat the surviving hatchlings. 

With our defiant duck population swelling to 13 and growing, we tried to fight back.  Using Will’s lacrosse goal net I tried to trap some of the surly creatures but my poorly thought out plan did not offer safe means to transfer the hostile, hissing fighters from the net to the van, so I released them.  During bow season, I secretly offered hunters a free chance to hunt and kill and take their tasty meat but even the hunters backed down when seeing their truculent talons.  We even contracted with a crocodile hunter type who claimed he could catch and release them all.  He arrived in a field truck equipped with an assortment of unusual equipment and shared stories with us about coons and possums and snakes he had successfully removed from people’s homes.  We watched our paid duckslayer run around our backyard in a safari hat wearing matching khaki bush shirt and shorts and knee high socks but after an hour of trying to toss a net over them, he was only able to catch some new ducklings and left abruptly, saying he needed reinforcements. He never returned.

We were called before our Home Owners Association Board to answer to our neighbors’ charges of farming and breeding livestock, but got those dismissed when we explained all that we had already tried to eliminate them and that the ducks were wild and doing a splendid job of keeping away the hundreds of even messier geese that used to flock to the neighborhood pond.

So our ducks stayed.  Some disappeared, probably thanks to a few overzealous neighbors or their very brave dogs, but the original six remained.  And we developed a peaceful coexistence with them, in harmony, like a barbershop quartet.  Or a toe fungus.

Then one day, as Toni arrived home, neighborhood kids rushed her car, pointing and shouting about a hurt duck.  Toni spotted him in the neighbors’ front yard near a small pond, writhing on its bank, his wing and chest covered in blood.  Jeffrey had a large chest laceration. He was unable to fly.  He had probably been attacked by a dog but somehow survived.  Hissing and flopping on the muddy bank, the duck suffered while my island girl of 30 years retreated to the house and returned with a large beach towel.  Without much thought, she wrapped the towel around the 40 pound duck, and bundling him up, brought him into our house, and placed him in our shower stall.

No vets would agree to see an injured duck, so our shower became Jeffrey’s private hospital.  She fed him corn and water and kept him quiet and warm and confined in the glass enclosure.  Kids dropped by to peek at him.  Jeffrey remained passive but slowly regained his strength.  And I bathed in a different bathroom.  For two weeks.

His lacerations and injuries healed, Jeffrey began to do the things ducks do when confined.  Like poop everywhere.  And strut.  And try to escape.  Wrapping him up carefully in a towel again while we watched proudly, Toni caringly took Jeffrey back to our pond to reunite with his five brothers and sisters. As we witnessed this blissful moment, the duck gently slipping into the water and his siblings gliding from the other side of the pond toward him, something changed.

Our feelings of pride transformed to horror as Jeffrey’s brothers and sisters began to attack him.  Two of them displayed their large wingspans while another jumped on his back and another grabbed his neck in its bill and tried to push his head underwater.  Jeffrey fought free and retreated to another spot on the pond.  But the relentless siblings followed and struck again.  We yelled at them and waved our arms, but nothing could break the harsh mob’s ruthless attacks now at the center of the pond.  Poor Jeffrey could not fight back and tried again to flee.  But he was slowly being drowned.

Jumping into a nearby canoe, I paddled straight into the frenzy.  Arriving in the cacophony of splashing water and hissing ducks, I swung my paddle into the head of one surprised duck, who cleared out of my way, and then connected again with my weapon, this time to the head of the crazy sibling on Jeffrey’s back trying to drown him.  He relented and Jeffrey half swam and half flew to a distant part of the pond.  The hooligans swiftly pursued and launched another attack.  I followed in my canoe, paddle primed, and played whack-a-mole with the criminal duck band, while Jeffrey, temporarily free again and seeing Toni on the bank, shot toward her.  She was ready and waiting with a large orange bedspread.  When our frantic feathered friend got to the shore, she jumped on him bedspread first and swooped him away to safety.

Reintroduction was no longer an option, I am sure Jeffrey would agree.  Luckily, our kids’ school, Charlotte Latin, had a large pond on its property, so the next day Toni and the kids transported Jeffrey to school and placing him on the bank of the pond, introduced him to his new home.

Eight years later, Jeffrey has lived the good life in his private pond paradise.   He still recognizes Toni and her car, and like an archangel communing with a seraph in a Christian sacrament, he swoops in from his sanctuary to share a snack when he sees her.  For years Jeffrey has peered patiently through the windows of the MAC swimming pool, watching her teach her morning water aerobics class. The MACFIT program ladies even pitch in to provide him a steady supply of corn they store in their cars.  Kids have adopted him as their unofficial mascot and Mary Cerbie, Latin PE Teacher, became his official advocate. Summer campers share their lunches with him and coaches keep a bag of dog food just for him at the nearby equipment room. They tried to change his name to Elvis because the Headmaster’s son is named Jeffrey and because he shakes his tail feathers when they come by.  

And Jeffrey?  He has outlived all of his siblings. No doubt grateful to others for his advanced age and happy to demonstrate his spirit of survival and what a little kindness can do, he just keeps on swimming.

Dog Day Thanksgiving

     Seeing most of our family gathered around a large, partially dug hole in a remote spot far away from my parents’ house and the greenery of Grassland, I knew this Thanksgiving promised to be different.  As a group we had always looked forward to a feast at Mom’s table with a fervor the Pilgrims would have admired.  My sisters’ children and my kids were conditioned to start salivating on Monday, their mouths reflexively reminded of the memories of Thanksgiving Thursdays past.  Salmon and cream cheese paired with garlic dip and celery would start the ritual, followed deliciously by fresh vegetables, ripe fruit, and homemade potato salad, topped off with your choice of a sweet ham, chicken and dumplings, and a giant turkey.  And a serving of canned cranberry sauce for me.  All the fixings waited patiently each year as we clasped hands in a family circle to pray for each other and share thanks for our blessings. 

     But this year had been a tough one. For our dogs.  We had been alerted during the drive over that in the middle of the night, Tigger, the last of my parents’ twin golden retrievers, had wandered off.  Sacrificing any sleep or preparation for the big day tomorrow, Mom and Dad had frantically searched for him, finally discovering him in the woods, barely breathing.  Somehow my two aging parents in an act of teamwork and bravery that will forever be legendary, wrapped their timeworn friend in a blanket and dragged his 120 pound body in the darkness, through rough terrain and wet grass, uphill and back to the house.  And there, in their arms, he had died.

     Earlier in the year, our dog Casper’s kidneys were failing miserably all over our house so tragically we were forced to put him to sleep.  Three sad days later we picked up his cremated remains, then, it being dinnertime, noticed an Italian café nearby.  “Do we leave Casper in the car?” I wondered out loud.  “No, we can’t just leave him.” pleaded Toni.  So, with some trepidation and Casper under my arm, we entered the restaurant.  “Table for three.” I demanded.  The hostess searched unsuccessfully.  “Will someone be joining you?”  “No.” I replied blankly.  Seated by our puzzled waitress, we placed Casper in the chair between us, saluting his life of faithful companionship over some pasta and a vintage bottle of Sangiovese.

         That same year, my sister Vickie and her family lost their golden retriever, Sandy.  Their replacement, a tiny, long-haired chihuahua named Bambi died of a brain injury when she accidently fell down a staircase.  Sister Patty’s dog, a yorkie named Lucy, barely escaped death after eating too much beach sand.  Our other dog, Rocky, had to have all his teeth removed, forever left with a tongue that would not stay in his mouth.  Sister Becky’s family dog, Kitty, could no longer walk and had to be put to sleep as well.  And Tigger’s twin, Ginger, had succumbed to cancer earlier in the year.  And now Tigger was dead.

     My dad, arms crossed, shoulders slumped and head down, stood at the hole’s edge.  Brother-in-law Pete, armpits sweating and soil stains on his Thanksgiving shirt, leaned on a shovel as Vickie’s new boyfriend Dave took his turn at the tree roots in the bottom of the hole.  Dave wiped his brow, a little out of breath and his clothes a mess.  This was Dave’s first Thanksgiving celebration with the Branners, and I nodded to him gratefully as I approached the cemetery’s border, silently wondering whether it would be his last.  No one knew what to say.  Normally a talkative Christian group, nieces Lauren, Cameron and Brooke quietly ministered to the other family members gathered around the grave.  The morning sun’s electrifying massage of the golden leaves of autumn veiled the solemn sadness of the moment.  

     At that moment there were no tears.  Just a hole to dig.

     Dad broke the silence.  Pointing out imperfections in the quality of the grave, he recommended Dave dig a little more here and Pete trim a little more there.  Then he sent the two back to the house to drag the unwieldy coffin to its final resting place.  The hole now complete, I said a private prayer of thanks that I had arrived a bit late.  Dad volunteered few details of the experience.  “Don’t know where your momma is.” he wondered. “Cooking, I guess.”  “Tigger was old.” he said.  “Best dog I ever had.” he said.  “Snoopy was buried there,” he pointed out,  “and our cat was buried there – twice.  I buried her myself on a Monday morning, then got to work and had the horrible thought that maybe she was just sleeping.  So I rushed back home, dug her up and put a mirror in front of her dirt-covered nose.  No fogging.  So I buried her again.”  The family group tittered awkwardly.  “Really, I did.” he chuckled.

     Mom was back at the house.  Cooking.  And crying. Toni and Vickie had jumped in to help our visibly upset matriarch prepare the traditional feast.  Watching her cook is fun and inspirational, but helping her cook is impossible.  She uses no recipes, just moving gracefully from pot to pot, knowing exactly what to add to make it perfect.  Adjusting this burner, uncovering that pot, adding an unmeasured ingredient or a special spice.  A pinch of salt.  Some oregano.  A little nutmeg.  “Ginger!” she suddenly exclaimed, throwing open the spice cabinet door, while my wife and sister watched helplessly.  What does she use that for?  “I need ginger.”  Rummaging through the pantry she pulled out a small, unassuming cardboard box, taped closed, and labeled “Ginger”. “Hurry! Take this outside and put it in the hole.” 

     Back at the pet cemetery, Dave and Pete muscled the stuffed blanket into the hole.  Our growling stomachs reminded us of how hungry we were, and we shared impatient glances about when the feast would begin, but we steadfastly stood witness, then recoiled as Dad started to pour Ginger’s cremated remains into the grave.  Thinking better of it, he lovingly placed the unopened box by his loyal old buddy, and the two were buried, promising Tigger he would for all eternity be with his twin. 

     We clasped hands while Brooke preached a short message and prayed a simple prayer of Peace and Thanksgiving.  All because of a dog, our family of brothers and sisters, and children and parents, uncles and aunts and in-laws and cousins and friends and grandparents had gathered together this year to experience Thanksgiving in a different way, and receive again the message handed down through generations from the Pilgrims in their New World in 1621: 

     Be thankful for the blessings of the harvest, the rewards of hard work, the salvation we receive from catastrophe and terrible events, and the sanctity of life.

Father of The Bride

"As I look around the room this evening, I am struck with one thought.  Not how beautiful this island is, although it is beautiful.  Not how wonderful this place is tonight, but it is wonderful.  I am struck with one thought above all others: Who are you people and what are you doing on my island?

This is a day to be thankful.  First of all, thanks to God because in Him all things are possible.  He is in our lives.  He is on this island.  He is here with us tonight.   And He will be with us at the ceremony tomorrow.  And forever.

Thanks to Jake’s parents, Ron and Diane Rude, and their family, for hosting this amazing event and providing for us so beautifully tonight.  And for sharing their son, Jake.  What a great job you have done with him.

When Jenna first told me about Jake, she described him as this really nice and handsome guy who works at Disneyland as Goofy.   He IS sort of Nordic looking which seemed strange to a North Carolina boy that a person from California wasn’t blonde and tanned.  When we first met him he was tall and skinny and pale.  Now look at him.  Still tall and skinny and pale.  Just kidding. Our family has always loved anything Disney. And now we love anything Jake.

I had dinner with his father recently and Ron described him to me as “favored” meaning that he is someone who always has something good happening to him.  For six years we have watched him grow into the fine man he is today  -- and we agree with his dad.  Jenna is the same way.  They both work hard and play hard.  As a result, good things happen to them both.  And that has been and will be fun to watch.

Thanks to Toni, my wife of 30 years.  My island girl.   Look at her. Doesn’t she look amazing?  Kenny Chesney’s friend described her as an absurdly hot parent.  She is!!  I love you.  Thank you for raising our wonderful family.

Special thanks to the youngest here this week.  Our island babies!!  Lorigan.  Genevieve.  Brennan.  Blake.  Luke. Hudson. Tell your parents to use lots of sunscreen, guys !!

Special thanks to the oldest here.  My Dad.  This place can be a bit of a challenge for Octogenarians.  And thanks to my Mom for the effort to get him here.

Special thanks to those who traveled so far.  From Hawaii.  Jake’s Aunt Becky.  And all the way from China, our niece Devon.  And special thanks to Team California.  Team Arkansas.  Team Texas.  Team New York.  Team North Carolina.

“Gratzi, Gratzi, Gratzi” to our Italian friends from The World Dance Movement.  “Viva Italiana!”

And finally, thanks to the future Mr. and Mrs. Rude.  Such beautiful people.

Turn to the person beside you and say  “Jenna and Jake are the perfect match.”

So, I am Jenna’s father.  And that makes me The Father of The Bride.   But I am also her Pool Boy.  Her Accountant.  Her Mechanic.  Her Personal Physician.  Her Teacher.  Her Driver.

When we visited our homeland in Italy years ago, and picked up a rental car, she taught me to say only one thing:

“Non so nulla.   Guido la machina.” 

Which means  “I know nothing.  I drive the car."  Jenna has always been very wise for her age.  Can I get you anything, honey?

Jenna and Jake.  Look around you.  Take it all in.  You are surrounded by people who love you.  By people who support your dreams.  By friends and family who will catch you when you stumble. This is your safety net.  Spiritually.  Financially.  Emotionally.  These generous and loving and positive people have your back.

Turn to the person beside you, high five them and say  “I have Jenna and Jake’s back.”

See? I am sure you will be well taken care of.

Jenna.  I have another secret which I have kept for over 24 years.  I have been in love with you since the first time I laid eyes on you.  Not many people in that circle.   You have been the center of my world forever.  Now you are the center of Jake’s world.  And believe me, that makes me feel good.  I am so happy with that. 

So, both of you, don’t think of this as a marriage.  Think of this as a really, really long date.  Love each other and care for each other as if you are still dating and trying to impress your date.  Please, I challenge both of you to support each others strengths and dreams, to forgive each others weaknesses and mistakes, to be grateful for your blessings, and to be constantly thankful for finding each other.

And remember to ask the Creator of the Universe to help you with anything you need or want. 

I have a feeling you will get it.

May God bless Jenna and Jake.  And may God bless us all." 

And God did bless us all - with a storm system hopelessly stalled directly over St. John.  Three days prior to the wedding it starting raining horribly with no signs of letting up.  Forecasters predicted 100% chance of misery with rain and flash flooding on the days prior to the ceremony. Members of our large group prayed and prayed some more. And an inexplicable, miraculous break in the weather gave our wedding party two days to gratefully enjoy the beauty of the island on Trunk Bay and then on Honeymoon Beach.  More spectacular weather on the island I cannot remember.

The next day was just as beautiful, like an island painting.  But the long Father-of-the-Bride walk down the Caribbean "aisle" with Jenna started with a few raindrops from a sky with no rain clouds, like tears of joy from Heaven, then turned into a quick refreshing shower and as our musician sang the verse "Here Comes The Sun", the tears stopped as suddenly as they had started.  And we were blessed with a full rainbow with a heart-shaped cloud to begin the ceremony as God reminded us that it takes a little rain to make rainbows.

And they were married.