Reed Ide
THE UGLY DUCK
I was somewhere around three and a half years old when my father emerged from the cellar with a wooden yellow duck on his head. I was used to his coming and going from that cavernous space quite regularly; it was his domain, complete with the smell of oil that clung to him whenever he came up to the first floor for air. The duck was something new.
Mom burst out laughing when she caught sight of the ridiculous headgear. I followed suit, and my younger brother, who fully understood that Daddy was acting foolish, chimed in with shrieks.
The joke played out, and that is when trouble showed itself. Dad could not get the duck off his head. It remained his firm hat. Mom tried to help him, but success eluded them both. Finally, armed with a can of Spry (a cooking shortening of the 1950s), Dad descended to his lair to attempt a solution. When he re-emerged, duck-less, he went straight to the bathroom for a much-needed shampoo.
This was no ordinary duck.
Dad built it so my younger brother and I could stand on its “back” to reach the bathroom sink. It was a wingless, ungainly bird: just a hollow box with head and tail attached, abstract wings painted on the sides, the body painted a vivid lemon color.
We soon forgot about this funny incident, and the duck became a standard feature in the upstairs bathroom, where, standing on its back each night, I received a scrub of my hands. Let me tell you, the brush hurt! Therein lay my fall from grace.
I was probably four years old on the day of my transgression. I was standing on the duck, getting my nightly scrub, but I had had enough of the pain!
“That damn brush,” I called out angrily. I was quite unprepared for my father’s instant reaction, as the back of the brush met the back of my hand. “Don’t you ever say that word again,” he shouted. I quickly found out what “that word” was and learned equally quickly never to utter it again!
By the time first grade rolled around, I had graduated from duck-standing, leaving the whole process to my brother. I knew never to say “damn,” but that was the extent of my knowledge of swear words. Until. There came a day in first grade when I managed to tip my desk over.
“Oh S%$t!” I exclaimed. I’ll never forget the reaction that got. I was sent home immediately, with instructions to tell my parents what had transpired. I was suitably punished (Jackie Fenton had one less attendee at his birthday party that year), and my life continued for the next 60 years with, of course, many more language lessons learned.
In my semi-retirement, I became a substitute teacher at our local Junior High school. The eighth-grade boys, especially, enjoyed the presence of a male substitute in a world populated by female teachers! When I had lunch duty, I could relax a bit, and I was frequently called to a boys’ table to hear the latest in eighth-grade humor. For the most part, I laughed, sometimes feigning disapproval if a joke went too far.
On one day in May, I was again called to a lunch table. Clearly, the assembled male collection, laced with budding testosterone, was feeling the oats of spring! “F-Bombs” littered the linguistic landscape, could not be ignored. I finally interrupted, reaching back to my own adolescent lessons learned. “Everyone swears,” I said. “Either out loud or by thought. If they deny it, they are lying to you. Your job, as you head for high school, is to figure out when to swear and, more importantly, when NOT to swear. And one of the times you should not swear aloud is in front of any teacher!” I walked away, hoping the lesson would stick.
Today, the wooden duck lives near my bed. It has a new mission. At my venerable age, I use it to rest my feet on while tying my shoes. Thus, I no longer need to bend to the floor. If the duck could talk, although it might complain, it would certainly confirm this has cut down on my swearing!