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Ducks are instant comedy.

My crazy farmer Aunt ate my pet duck Donald. It’s a true story. Tricia never remembered it and always invited me for solstice duck. Eventually, I just told her I didn’t eat anything that walked.

The waddle of a duck is natures comedy. When they get angry it gets funnier.

My Aunt Josaphine and my Grandmother Randall were from Upper Marlboro and Josaphine kept her farm going for a long time there.

I remember her hands mostly. I’ve written about them a lot. Those hands. They were leathered rock. Not as bendable as other hands.

I was born in DC. Because Prince George’s county was rural and there weren’t any hospitals. So, the country/city life dynamic has been with me always. There were things I said as a child that made my Grandmother laugh years later just remembering them. A visit to Aunt Josaphines farm was among them.

It seems dirty to me.

And hot.

I once told my Aunt to call a plumber because her cow was leaking. That’s what kept my Grandmother laughing. I meant it.

Never been a fan of milk.

When Tricia fell in love with farming off of 301 I made a mental note to talk to her about that one day. That’s the land my family worked. The place my Dad married his second wife. I was in that wedding too.

I wanted to tell her a lot of stuff that I didn’t tell her. Stupid and insignificant stuff like that. It just never came up really. And besides, we were too busy trying to figure out how to heal ourselves and the world. So, these things…they seemed silly.


If the world starts to look too bleak, all I have to do sometimes is think of a duck in the rain.


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