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Birds of a feather…
(by Tracy Beckerman - April 29, 2008)
“The ducks are back,” my husband told me when I woke up one morning. “And your parents called. They’ll be back up north at the end of May.”
He informed me of these two things as though they were somehow related. It didn’t seem to make sense to me. On the one hand there were the ducks — a mallard couple that spends the winters in Florida and then flies up north and swims in our pool every spring. Then there were my folks — a human couple who recently retired to Florida and were returning up north for the summer.
To review:
The ducks live in Florida and fly north for the summer.
My parents live in Florida and fly north for the summer.
And that’s when it hit me… My parents had become ducks. Well, technically, Snowbirds, as they’re otherwise known. But certainly migratory birds, no matter how you plucked it.
“Do you realize that my parents are just like our ducks?” I said to my husband, after my epiphany.
“Oh, do your parents poop and molt in the pool, too?” he asked.
I gave him the annoying husband look of death.
“Don’t you see?” I explained. “The ducks hate the cold and my parents hate the cold. The ducks fly south for the winter and my parents flew south for the winter. The ducks can’t find food in the snow and my dad can’t, um, play golf in the snow!”
“That’s brilliant, honey,” he said.
“The ducks sleep on a nest of feathers and my parents sleep under a down blanket!” I continued gleefully.
“Down is made from geese.”
“Whatever. They’re practically family!”
“Great,” he said. “So now that we have established that your parents are ducks, will that somehow help us get the actual ducks out of our pool?”
He had a point. Whereas we would have been quite pleased if my parents had decided to spend some time with us, we were significantly less thrilled to have the real ducks back in residence for the eighth summer in a row.
Since birds of a feather flock to Boca Raton together, I thought I would ask my parents if they had any suggestions to help us banish their feathered brethren.
“Well, when we visit, we don’t like it if the pool is too cold,” said my dad.
“The ducks don’t seem to care about the temperature,” I responded.
“We don’t like to go in the pool if there are bugs and leaves in it,” he continued.
“They seem to prefer it that way.” I said.
“We definitely wouldn’t swim if there were alligators in the pool,” he said brightly.
“Neither would the ducks,” I agreed. “But then again, neither would we.”
We pondered this some more.
“Why don’t you just eat them?” he finally suggested.
“DAD!!!”
I was fortunately saved from any further murderous suggestions by the doorbell. It was my neighbor who also happens to have a pool and needed to borrow some pool equipment. As we walked to my shed, I told him that our ducks were back.
“I know,” he said. “The female was swimming in our pool this morning.”
I was aghast. “Oh no! They must have split up and she moved over to your place.” His and hers summer homes for divorced ducks.
Then I thought for a minute, ran in the house and picked up the phone.
“Hey Dad, everything good between you and mom?”
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